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LIBRARY 

OF    THK 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

Received...  .^t^k/^  , ,  I 

Accessions  No. -^-^-^/^-^-^       Shelf  No. .. 


35p  ©Una  £)ean  Proctor. 

A  RUSSIAN  JOURNEY.   New  Edition,  enlarged. 

i6mo,  $1.25. 

POEMS.    Revised  and  Enlarged  Edition.    i6mo, 
$1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


POEMS 


BY 


EDNA  DEAN    PROCTOR 

AUTHOR  OF   "A  RUSSIAN   JOURNEY" 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1890 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  EDNA  DEAN  PROCTOR. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


To 


DAVID    CHOATE    PROCTOR 

A  LIVING,  INSPIRING  PRESENCE 
THOUGH    UNSEEN 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

And  Herd's  altar,  Buddha 's  fane  ....  1 

Cleobis  and  Biton 3 

The  Last  Inca 9 

Helena's  Beacons 17 

InOldSiam 23 

El  Mahdi  to  the  Tribes  of  the  Soudan  .  .  25 
"  The  Prayer  in  the  Desert "  .  .  .29 

The  Virgin  of  St.  Mark's  ....  32 

Matins  at  St.  Mary's 35 

The  Russian's  Dream  of  Constantinople  .  38 

Holy  Russia 40 

Our  Country  !  whose  eagle  exults  as  he  flies  .  .  45 

Yosemite 47 

The  Lost  War-Sloop 48 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge 51 

The  Mountain  Maid 53 

New  Hampshire 56 

Illinois 63 

Peoria 64 

The  Blue  above  Potomac  ....  65 
The  Washington  Monument  .  .  .  .67 

The  Lady  of  the  White  House  ...  69 

Kearsarge 70 

Monadnock  in  October 73 

Contoocook  River  .  .  ...  75 


vi  CONTENTS. 

The  Rescue 78 

Merrimack  River  at  its  Source  ....  83 

Merrimack  River  at  its  Mouth  ...  84 

The  Portsmouth  Sailor 85 

Horace  Greeley 90 

Still  will  the  Christmas  bells  be  sweet  ...  93 

The  Queen  of  the  Year  ....  95 

Christmas  Eve  at  Bethlehem  ....  96 

The  Winter  Solstice 99 

Waiting  for  Easter 101 

Easter  Morning1     ......  104 

Easter  Bells 107 

To  the  minstrel  said  the  king  ....  109 
Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  .  .  .  .111 

Born  of  the  Spirit 114 

Lights  and  Shadows 116 

The  Cry  of  Job 117 

Daily  Dying 118 

O  Loved  and  Lost 120 

The  Tryst  of  Souls 123 

The  Heavens 126 

How  Little  of  our  Life 129 

The  Flight  of  Souls 131 

A  Prayer 132 

A  Truant  from  Eden 134 

Stanley  Ware 136 

Alone  with  God 138 

"Come  unto  Me" 139 

Prayers  for  the  Dead 142 

The  Perfect  Day 143 

In  Memory  of  A.  E.  C 144 

When  I  am  Dead 146 

Take  Heart 147 

Forward 148 

Through  Storm  and  Sun  ....  150 

The  Homeless  .  150 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

Hope  and  Despair 151 

"  This,  too,  will  pass " 151 

Fair  scenes  and  songs  in  dreams  on  high        .         .  153 

England .155 

The  Song  by  the  Barada       ....  156 

The  South  Wind 159 

The  Oriole 160 

The  Song  of  Songs 161 

Goldenrod  and  Asters 163 

A  Crimson  Clover 165 

The  Rose-Bush  in  Autumn   ....  167 

Good-Night 168 

When  the  Rose  has  opened    ....  169 

Thy  Psyche 171 

Love  Song  of  the  Omahas     .         .  174 

Teresa        ....                 ...  176 

The  Gypsy    ....  179 

Balta          .         .  180 

Russia 181 

Alexander  II.  of  Russia    ...  .183 

St.  Petersburg 185 

Moscow 186 

Moscow  Bells 187 

Moscow  at  Evening   .                  ....  188 

The  Shrines  of  Moscow  189 

Troitsa  Monastery     .                            ...  190 

The  Fair  of  Nijni  Novgorod  191 

Asia  at  Nijni 192 

Kazan 193 

The  Lower  Volga 194 

Farewell  to  the  Volga 195 

The  River  Don 197 

The  Cossack 198 

The  Carpathians 199 

The  Plains  of  Bessarabia     ....  200 

BaidarGate                         201 


viii  CONTENTS. 

The  Crimean  Coast  and  Alupka    .        .        .  202 

The  English  Cemetery  at  Sevastopol        .        .  203 

Frederick  III.  of  Germany  ....  204 

Robert  Burns 205 

Hushed  are  the  bugles  that  called  to  the  strife         .  209 

Heroes 211 

The  Virginia  Scaffold 213 

The  White  Slaves 216 

Harvest  and  Liberty 220 

The  Stripes  and  the  Stars          .         .         .         .223 

Compromise  .......  225 

Who's  Ready? 227 

The  Mississippi 229 

By  the  Shenandoah 240 

For  Freedom 244 

The  Hundred  Days' Men 246 

The  Grave  of  Lincoln 248 

The  numbers  attached  to  some  of  the  poems  refer  to 
notes  at  the  end  of  the  book. 


And  Hera's  altar,  Buddha's  fane, 

Fair  temples  to  the  Sun, 
Cathedral  aisle  and  soaring  strain, 
The  fountained  mosque,  the  pilgrim  train, 

But  seek  the  Eternal  One  ! 

Earth  yearns,  through  strife  and  wrong  and  woe, 
The  perfect  Lord  to  find  and  know. 


(u  H 

x  />., 


CLEOBIS   AND   BITON.1 
(!N  AKGOS.) 

PRAISE  to  the  Queen  of  Heaven,  Hera  stately 
and  fair ! 

I,  her  Argive  priestess,  above  all  women  am 
blest! 

Her  glorious  gaze  meets  mine  when  the  sky  is 
blue  and  bare ; 

I  see  the  gleam  of  her  robes  as  clouds  float  up 
from  the  west ;  — 

List,  while  her  viewless  singer,  the  cuckoo,  en 
chants  the  air, 

And  the  flowers  of  her  pomegranates  flame  on 
the  thicket's  crest. 

Azure  and  gold  was  that  morning,  her  festival 
morn; 

Purple  through  silvery  haze  the  peaks  encom 
passed  the  plain ; 

Ocean  rolled  flashing  to  ether,  and  a  wind  with 
sunrise  born 

Blew  from  the  Fields  Elysian  beyond  the  blight 
of  pain ; 


4  CLEOBIS  AND  BITON. 

Crocus  and  hyacinth  blossomed ;  the  nightingale 
sang  on  the  thorn  ; 

And  with  music  like  Hebe's  laughter  the  hill- 
brooks  leapt  to  the  main. 

Argos  its   gates  had  opened,  and  matrons  and 

maids  and  men 
Hastened  to  Hera's  temple  on  the  slope  of  the 

terraced  hill ; 
But  the  strong  white  oxen  were  ploughing  far 

over  the  reedy  fen, 
And  I,  her  priestess  and  lover,  tarried  impatient 

still,  — 
For  only  the  strong  white  oxen,  by  meadow  and 

stream  and  glen 
Could  draw  my  chariot  thither,  secure  from  the 

lightest  ill. 

Chaplet  and  bough  were  fading ;  eager  the  maids 

for  the  race ; 
But  the  toiling  oxen  came  not,  and  the  sun  went 

up  the  sky. 
What  should  I  answer  the  Goddess  ?    How  could 

I  sue  for  grace 
If  her  rites  should  fail,  or  the  garlands  and  gifts 

unoffered  lie  ? 
And  my  heart  was   heavy  within   me,  —  when, 

straight  to  the  chariot's  place, 
Cleobis  tall,  and  Biton,  strode  with  a  joyful  cry  ! 


CLEOBIS  AND  BITON.  5 

Cleobis  tall,  and  Biton,  my  sons,  my  pride,  my 

life; 
Beauty  and  strength  and  valor  from  heroes  of 

old  had  they  ; 
Both  in  the  Games  were  victors  —  ay,  both,  in 

godlike  strife, 
Had  borne  the  crown  of  olive  from  a  thousand 

youths  away ! 
While   heralds   proclaimed   their   triumph,    and 

many  a  maid  and  wife 
Sighed  to  Hera  for  husband  and  son  like  them, 

that  day. 

Swift  in  the  car  they  placed  me,  and  on  their 
own  necks  laid 

The  yoke  of  the  tardy  oxen,  lest  the  Goddess 
should  suffer  wrong  !  — 

Then  cheers  went  up  around  us ;  the  flutes  me 
lodious  played ; 

And  the  glad  procession  faneward  moved  to  the 
swelling  choral  song  ; 

While  the  flower  of  the  Argive  women,  in  stain 
less  white  arrayed, 

Circled  the  car  with  mazy  steps  and  led  the  won 
dering  throng. 

Full  five  and  forty  furlongs  did  they  draw  me  to 

the  door, 
And  the  whole  assembly  shouted  till  the  firm 

earth  seemed  to  reel ;  — 


6  CLEOBIS  AND  BITON. 

The  women  extolled  the  mother  these  hero-sons 

who  bore, 
And   the  men  the  youths  immortal  who  could 

such  strength  reveal ; 

And  lo  !  as  I  descended  I  saw  an  eagle  soar, 
And  knew  great  Zeus   in  heaven  had  marked 

their  holy  zeal. 

O'erwhelmed  by  the  loving  service,  uplifted  to 

the  sky, 
I  entered  the  temple,  and   standing  before  the 

image,  prayed : 
"  O  glorious  Argive  Hera !  what  deed  with  this 

can  vie  ? 
What  other  sons  such  homage  to  their  mother 

and  thee  have  paid  ?  — 
Grant  them  the  rarest  blessing  that  all  the  Gods 

on  high 
Can  give  to  mortals ;  and  never  on  earth  let  their 

memory  fade ! " 

The  sacrifice  smoked  on  the  altar ;  incense 
clouded  the  air ; 

And  with  hymns,  and  full  libations  poured  from 
the  golden  bowls, 

They  took  of  the  holy  banquet,  and  knew  —  the 
princely  pair  — 

Their  names  in  light  were  written  on  the  tem 
ple's  proudest  scrolls ; 


CLEOBIS  AND  BITON.  1 

Then,  weary  with  toil  and  worship,  they  sank  to 

slumber  there, 
While  the  wind  blew  soft  and  the  Sun-god  turned 

to  his  western  goals. 

In  the   altar's   shadow  sitting   I  watched  their 

tranquil  sleep, 
And  thought  of  the  fame  and  gladness  the  long 

years  held  in  store  ; 
When  the  fairest  maids  of  Argos  their   bridal 

feasts  should  keep, 
Maids  they  should  bring  all  jewelled  and  blush- 

ing  to  their  door ; 
While  the  Dorian  land  —  nay,  Hellas  —  should 

praise  and  honor  heap 
On  the  youths  who  put  the  Goddess  their  festal 

ease  before. 

But  day  was  fast  declining  to  sunset's  golden 

gleam, 
And,  still  with  joy  transported,  I  stooped,  their 

rest  to  rouse  ;  .  .  . 
Oh!  direful,    direful     slumber!  ...  Oh !  bliss 

beyond  my  dream !  .  .  . 
The  breath  had  left  their  parted  lips,  and  pallid 

were  their  brows ! 
This  was  the  rarest  blessing ;  this  was  the  gift 

supreme,  — 
The  summons  from  the  mighty  Gods  that  doth 

the  soul  unhouse  ! 


8  CLEOBIS  AND  BITON. 

Dead  in  their  strength  and  beauty ;  dead  on  the 

temple-floor ;  .  .  . 
Nay !  living   with   the    Deathless   Ones  by   the 

meads  of  asphodel ! 
And  agonized,  —  yet  raptured  to  see  the  smile 

they  wore,  — 
I  cried,  as  close  I  clasped  them,  "  O  Hera  !     It 

is  well !  .  .  . 
Nor  wail  nor  dirge  shall  sound  for  them  —  the 

blest  forevermore,  — 
But  paeans  sweet,   triumphant,  to  all  the  Gods 

shall  swell !  "  .  .  . 

Their  tombs  rise  high  on  the  hillside  by  Hera's 

guarding  fane, 
Strewn    ever  with   brightest   blossoms,  bedewed 

with  richest  wine  ; 
And  their  forms,  at  the  door,  in  marble,  fronting 

their  native  plain, 
I  set  where  the  car  was  stayed  that  morn,  — set 

for  a  sacred  sign  ; 
While   the  Argives,   that  their    glory   on   earth 

might  never  wane, 
In  Delphi  placed  their  statues,  before  Apollo's 

shrine. 
And  shall  I  mourn  their  parting  ?  let  my  tears 

fall  as  rain  ? 
Nay  !    paeans   for  the  heroes  borne  to  the  life 

divine ! 


THE   LAST   INCA.2 

IN  lone  Caxamalca  Pizarro  awaits 

The  moment  the  Inca  shall  enter  its  gates, 

His  horsemen,  his  footmen,  concealed  in  the  halls, 

Wide-portaled,  that  circle  the  plaza's  gray  walls ; 

For  the  people  have  fled  to  the  camp  of  the  king 

Till  they  find  what  the  Spaniards'  fell  presence 

will  bring  — 

The  snowy  tents  marshalled  his  guests  to  dismay, 
On  the  valley's  green  border  a  bird's  flight  away. 
The  dark  plot  is  woven  ;  the  mass  has  been  said ; 
Jehovah  of  battles  invoked  for  their  head ; 
And  captain  and  soldier  with  valiant  accord 
Chanted,  "  Exsurge,  Domine,  —  Rise,  O  Lord !  " 

"  He  comes  !  "  cried  the  sentinel  set  in  the  tower ; 
"His    legions,    advancing,    like    thunder-clouds 

lower ; 
Hark !  hear  the  wild  songs  the  red  heathen  are 

singing 
As  they  clear  from  his  path  every  straw  that  is 

clinging  ! 
And  nearer,  and  nearer  ...  I  see  the  bright 

swarm 


10  THE  LAST  INC  A. 

Of  nobles  and  guards  that  environ  his  form  ; 
Their  robes  white  and  azure,  their  hair  decked 

with  gold, 

Triumphant,  unnumbered,  their  prince  they  en 
fold ; 
They  sweep  by  the  fortress  ;    their  lines  curve 

apart ; 
Dios !  't  is  the  Inca !  .  .  .  What  glowing   rays 

dart 
From  his  throne,  as  a  sun,  on  their  shoulders 

borne  high, 
Plumed  and  gemmed  with  the  Virgin's  own  altar 

to  vie  ! 

And  there  he  reclines  with  the  air  of  a  god, 
As  if  armies  and  kingdoms  would    fall  at  his 

nod ; 

On  his  brow  the  imperial  borla  is  bound, 
Its  crimson  fringe  drooping  his  temples  around, 
And  above  float  the  plumes  of  that  bird  of  the 

skies 

Which  only,  they  say,  for  his  diadem  flies  ; 
His   mantle,  how  gorgeous  ;  and  lo,   while  you 

listen, 

I  see  at  his  throat  his  great  emeralds  glisten  ;  .  .  . 
He  enters  the  gateway  ;  his  hordes  follow  fast ; 
Dios !  we  have   trapped    this   proud   pagan    at 

last !  " 

The  palanquin  halts  in  the  heart  of  the  square  ; 
And  still  every  Spaniard  hides  deep  in  his  lair. 


THE  LAST  INCA.  11 

"  Now  where  are  the  strangers  ?  "  the  grave  Inca 

calls, 
As  he  sees  but  his  train  'twixt  the  compassing 

walls  ;  — 
"  I  have  come,  at  their  craving,  to  sup  with  them 

here 
In  my  own  Caxamalca,  and  what  should  they 

fear  ?  " 

Then  forth  strode  Valverde,  Pizarro's  own  priest, 

Saint  Dominic's  friar,  to  bid  to  the  feast ; 

A  Bible,  a  crucifix,  solemn  he  bears, 

And  straight  through  the  throng  to  the  Inca  he 

fares. 

With  slightest  obeisance,  in  sounding  Castilian,  — 
While  the  monarch  gazed  calm  from  his  golden 

pavilion, 

And  Philip,  interpreter,  stood  at  his  side,  — 
"  My  commander  has  sent  me  to  tell  you,"  he 

cried, 
"  Of  the  Faith  which  is  true  and  the  King  who 

is  strong  ; 
We  have  sailed  the  wide  ocean  to  show  you  your 

wrong  ;  "  — 
And,    deeming    his   creed   would   convince    and 

appall, 

Creation,  the  Trinity,  Eden,  the  Fall, 
The  Saviour  incarnate,  his  life,  crucifixion, 
Saint  Peter,  King  Charles,  and  the  Pope's  male 
diction 


12  THE  LAST  INCA. 

On  all  who  proved  recreant,  passed  in  review ; 
While  Indian-Philip  his  words  coined  anew, 
And  added  explainingly,  "  Christians  adore 
These  three  Gods  and  one  God,  and  that  will 

make  four." 
Thus  ended   Valverde :    u  The   Pope,   and   our 

King, 

Earth's  mightiest  ruler,  have  sent  us  to  bring 
This   light   in  your  darkness.     Renounce   your 

false  ways 
And   learn   the   true   God  of  the  Spaniards  to 

praise  ! 
Become  their  good  vassal ;  —  so  vengeance  shall 

spare, 
And  you  and   your   land   have   their   fostering 


"Aide!"  groaned   the  Inca,   on  fire  when  he 

heard ; 

His  proud  form  dilated  as  word  after  word 
Fell  hot  on  his  ear  ;  and  in  answer  he  flames, 
"  What  warrant  has  Pope  or  has  King  for  his 

claims  ?  "  — 
While  the  people's  deep  murmur  crept  out  to  the 

valley 

Where  legion  on  legion  would  rise  at  his  rally  ;  — 
"This   book,"    said    Valverde;   and   sternly   he 

placed 

The  Bible  before  him.     The  Inca  in  haste 
Scans   its   pages ;    then   dashed   it    disdainfully 

down : 


THE  LAST  INCA.  13 

"  Tell  your  comrades  the  insults  they  offer  my 

crown  — 

Their  crimes  in  my  realm  they  shall  amply  atone ! 
Know  that  /  am  most  mighty  —  the  strongest 

my  throne ; 
Your   King  may  be   powerful  —  a  brother  I  '11 

be  — 

But  vassal  to  none  on  the  land  or  the  sea ! 
And  my  Faith  —  by  the  heavens  !  I  never  will 

alter  ! 
As   soon   shall   the   dawn   in   the   glowing   east 

falter ! 

Your  own  God,  you  tell  me,  was  cruelly  slain 
By  the  men  he  created  ;  hung,  dead,  in  his  pain ; 
But  mine  lives  forever !  my  father,  the  Sun, 
The  deathless,  the  glorious,  unchangeable  One  ;  — 
Behold  where  he  shines  in  celestial  array  ! 
Then  back  to  your  darkness  !  I  bide  with  the 

day !  " 

"  Base  hound !  "  said  the  friar,  as  stooping  he 

caught 
The  book  to  his  breast,  and  with  quickened  steps 

sought 

Pizarro,  who  waited  his  coming  within,  — 
"  If  you  wish,"  he  burst  out,  "  the  vast  wager  to 

win, 
Talk  no  more  with  this  dog  full  of  malice  and 

pride ! 
His  clans  fill  the  fields.    Once  our  force  is  defied, 


14  THE  LAST  INC  A. 

Nor   wisdom    nor   courage    their    swarms   can 

evade ;  — 
Set  on !  I  absolve  you !  and  God  be  your  aid !  " 

"  'T  is  the  hour  !  "  cried  Pizarro ;  and,  boldest  to 

dare, 

The  white  scarf,  his  signal,  waves  ghostly  in  air ! 
Like  thunder  on  Andes  the  fortress  gun  roars, 
And  horsemen  and  footmen  spring  fierce  from 

the  doors ; 
"  Saint  Jago  and  at  them !  "  they  shout  as  they 

come, 

And  nobles  and  people  bewildered  and  dumb, 
Unarmed  and  defenseless,  are  slaughtered  like 

sheep 
In  the  pit  of  the  shambles  !     The  dread  horses 

leap 
On  their  quivering  forms  as  they  cower  from  the 

stroke 
Of  the  sabres   that   flash   through  the  eddying 

smoke, 
As  they  writhe  with  the  balls  from  the  muskets 

outpoured,  — 

And  all  in  the  name  of  the  merciful  Lord  ! 
Yet  still  through  the  horror,  the   anguish,  the 

stress, 
Bound  their  heaven -born   Inca   devoted    they 

press ; 

At  his  feet  lie  his  princes,  the  dying,  the  dead, 
But  others  crowd  eager  to  stand  in  their  stead, 


THE  LAST  INCA.  15 

And.   trampled    and    mangled,   no  weapons   to 

wield, 
Seek  yet  from  the  fiends  their  loved  monarch  to 

shield  ! 

As  a  bark  on  the  billows  his  litter  is  swayed 
By  the  rush  and  the  blast  of  the   mad   caval 
cade  ;  — 
Ho !    the    bearers   have   fallen !      The   Inca   is 

down! 

Estete  has  snatched  his  imperial  crown ! 
And,    dragged   and   despoiled  by   the  ravaging 

host, 

His  bright  vesture  sullied,  his  jewels  the  boast 
Of  his  captors,  they  seize  him  and  bear  him 

away, 
Strong  -  guarded,   as    fades    the    last    glory   of 

day!  .  .  . 

Then  a  shadow  stole  over  the  face  of  the  Sun 
In  the  shrines  ;  and  a  wail  from  the  sweet  winds 

that  run 
Through  the  dusk,  thrilled  the  air ;  but  no  star 

could  deliver ;  — 

The  light  of  the  Incas  had  vanished  forever  !  .  .  . 
And  his  people,  bereft  of  their  Child  of  the  Sky, 
Break  wild  through  the  wall  in  their  terror,  and 

fly 

To  the  vales,  to  the  mountains,  cut  down  as  they 

go 
By  the  sword  and  the  shot  and  the  hoof  of  the 

foe!  . 


16  THE  LAST  INCA. 

Now  night  o'er  the  scene  spreads  her  pitying 
pall;  — 

"  Bid  the  trumpets,"  Pizarro  cries,  "  sound  a  re 
call, 

And  Te  Deums  be  sung,  for  Jehovah  has  given 

This  might  to  our  arms,  else  in  vain  we  had 
striven !  " 

And  the  chants,  and  the  groans  of  the  dying,  as 
one, 

Went  up  to  the  Lord  when  the  carnage  was 
done. 


HELENA'S   BEACONS.8 
(THE  FINDING  OF  THE  CROSS,  A.  D. 

HELENA,  Empress-mother, 

Weary  with  years  and  woes, 
Was  fain  to  see  the  holy  place 

Of  the  Saviour's  last  repose. 
u  The  rock?  the  tomb  ?  "  cried  Constantine, 

"  Nay,  could  His  Cross  be  found, 
What  glory  for  my  life,  my  reign, 

To  time's  remotest  bound  ! 
For  since  the  day  its  splendor  blazed 

By  the  sun  in  the  blinding  sky, 
And  the  whole  silent,  awe-struck  host 

Knew  more  than  Jove  was  nigh, 
And  the  night  the  Lord  himself  came  down 

The  mystic  symbol  showing, 
And  I  saw  His  face  as  the  seraphs  see, 

With  love  and  pity  glowing,  — 
I  have  stamped  it  on  the  Empire 

As  God  on  heaven's  dome  ; 
By  this  sign  I  have  conquered 

In  camp  and  court  and  home, 
And  my  own  statue  bears  it  up, 

The  bronze  I  reared  in  Rome ! 


18  HELENA'S  BEACONS. 

It  beams  in  jewels  from  my  crown ; 

My  standard  takes  its  form, 
And  the  noblest  knights  about  it  press 

Nor  fear  the  battle's  storm  ; 
In  every  banner's  fold  it  waves, 

On  every  shield  it  shines, 
And  the  helmets  lift  it  proud  and  high 

Along  their  gleaming  lines. 
O  saintly  mother,  hasten  hence 

With  an  imperial  train  ! 
And  towers  shall  rise  for  watching  eyes 
On  cliff  and  crag  against  the  skies 

By  stream  and  mount  and  main, 
That  fire  may  flash  the  bliss  to  me 
If  you  should  find  the  wondrous  Tree  !  " 

So,  when  the  favoring  west-wind  blew 

And  the  stars  of  summer  rose, 
Went  Helena,  in  vesture  gray, 
With  a  princely  band  to  guard  her  way 

To  the  place  of  the  Lord's  repose  ;  — 
Nor  pride,  nor  pomp,  nor  purple  state, 
Meek  she  knocked  at  the  sacred  gate 

And  prayed  the  bars  unclose. 
And  entering  in  with  reverent  feet 

And  murmured  vow  and  prayer, 
She  called  the  faithful  ones  to  tell 
The  secret  guarded  long  and  well 

Of  the  Holy  Places  there. 
Alas,  alas  !  on  Calvary 

Was  a  shameless  pagan  shrine  ; 


HELENA'S  BEACONS.  19 

And  there  where  dropped  the  bitter  myrrh 

Flowed  fast  the  festal  wine, 
And  wanton  songs  disturbed  the  air 

That  throbbed  with  sighs  divine  ! 
"  God  pardon  us  !  "  cried  Helena ; 

And  at  her  word  they  go 
With  eager  hands  and  raptured  hearts 

To  lay  the  temple  low. 
Column  and  altar,  porch  and  roof, 

And  the  statues  false  and  fair, 
To  the  hateful  waste  of  Hinnom's  vale 

With  swift  accord  they  bear ; 
And  the  earth  the  lustrous  marbles  hid, 

The  heaped  and  heavy  mould, 
Abroad  they  fling ;  till,  far  beneath, 

The  Tomb  their  eyes  behold  — 
The  Sepulchre,  and  the  rifted  Rock, 

And  the  Stone  the  angel  rolled  ! 
"  God  is  our  help  !  "  quoth  Helena, 

"  The  Cross  we  yet  shall  see  ;  "  — 
And  searching  all  the  eastern  ledge, 
Deep  in  a  pit  below  its  edge, 
Just  as  the  young  moon's  tender  beam 
Touched  Zion's  height  and  Kedron's  stream, 

They  found  the  blessed  Tree  ! 
And  O  the  shouts  that  rent  the  air, 

And  O  the  joy  divine, 
As  they  flew  to  light  the  beacon -fire 
And  flash  the  bliss  of  his  soul's  desire 

To  saintly  Constantine  !  .  .  . 


20  HELENA'S  BEACONS. 

A  flame,  a  flame  on  David's  tower  ! 

A  flame  on  Raman's  height ! 
Samaria's  hill  has  caught  the  gleam  ; 

Lone  Tabor's  oaks  are  bright ! 
On  Hermon,  crown  of  Lebanon, 

Blaze  the  sweet  cedar  boughs ; 
Berytus  reddens  grove  and  bay 

The  northern  strand  to  rouse  ; 
And  the  cliffs  of  queenly  Antioch 

Send  rosier  light  to  heaven 
Than  lit  her  stately  colonnades 
Or  blushed  in  Daphne's  myrtle  shades 
When  feast  and  song  and  dance  of  maids 

To  her  loved  god  were  given  ! 
And  now  it  leaps  the  Issus  gulf ; 

Cilicia's  plain  it  thrills  ; 
Cold  Cydnus  glows,  and  Tarsus  throws 

The  splendor  to  the  hills  ; 
And  the  peaks  of  cloudy  Taurus  lean 

Through  purple-tinted  air, 
And  catch  the  fire  on  wall  and  spire 

And  snow-fields  dazzling  fair, 
Till  far  northwest,  by  gorge  and  steep, 

The  joyful  beacons  flare. 

For  the  winds  are  out,  and  the  cressets  stream 
To  the  stars  and  the  young  moon's  tender  beam 

From  heights  where  the  eagle  springs,  — 
Past  many  a  city  gray  and  old, 
Past  fount  and  fane  and  the  sculptured  hold 

Where  sleep  the  Phrygian  kings  ! 


HELENA'S  BEACONS.  21 

They  beam  above  Maeander's  tide  ; 

Wake  Sardis  with  its  shrines  ; 
And  lo !  again  leap  shore  and  main 
"Where  Lesbos  fronts  the  Mysian  plain 
And  lights  her  answering  pines  ! 
From  isle  to  isle,  from  wave  to  lea, 

The  torches  never  falter, 
Till  high  they  burn,  like  the  flush  of  dawn, 

On  Ilion's  mountain  altar  ! 
So  clear  and  high  on  Ida's  crest 
And  the  crags  that  climb  where  the  north  winds 
rest, 

That  great  Olympus  sees  — 
Asian  Olympus  crowned  with  snows, 
A  peak  of  heaven  at  daylight's  close 

Dark-set  in  towering  trees. 
And  higher  still  his  beacon  soars, 

A  hundred  flames  in  one, 
And  glows  ad  own  the  dusky  vales 
And  gilds  the  far  Propontis-sails, 

Red  as  the  rising  sun. 
It  flashes  to  the  palace  walls  ! 

The  waiting  Emperor  greets  ! 
And  the  shouts  that  shook  Jerusalem 

Ring  through  the  royal  streets ! 
And  torches  blaze  and  banners  gleain, 

While  loud  the  heralds  call : 
"  To  the  church  of  the  Holy  Apostles, 

That  the  Lord  be  praised  for  all !  " 
And  wild  the  people  throng  the  way 
To  the  stately  courts  more  bright  than  day, 


22  HELENA'S  BEACONS. 

At  their  head  exultant  Constantine 

With  a  waxen  taper  tall ! 
And  the  roof  resounds  with  chant  and  psalm 

And  many  a  holy  hymn  — 
"  Glory  to  God!  "  the  angels  sung, 

And  the  song  of  the  cherubim  — 
Till  the  sorrowing  Christ  from  the  altar-screen 
With  a  smile  of  love  looks  down, 
And  the  shadowy  cross  beside  him  borne 

Glows  like  a  victor's  crown  ; 
Till  sweet,  in  the  pauses  of  the  praise, 

Float  echoes  from  the  sky, 
And  they  know  the  joy  of  the  faithful  here 

Is  the  joy  of  the  blest  on  high ! 


IN  OLD  SIAM.4 

O  THE  wonder  !     O  the  glory ! 

Hunting  deer  by  hill  and  glade, 
In  the  balm  and  flush  of  morning 

Down  the  woodland  ways  I  strayed. 
Bright  the  lotus  buds  were  blowing  ; 

Rose  and  jasmine  wreathed  the  bowers ; 
Every  thicket  rung  with  music  ; 

Dropped  the  dews  in  pearly  showers. 
O  the  wonder  !     O  the  glory ! 

Merit's  ravishing  reward ! 
'Neath  a  stately  Bo-tree's  shadow, 

Still  as  statue  on  the  sward, 

Stood  the  pure,  celestial  lord, 

The  White  Elephant,  a  Buddha ! 

To  the  earth  I  fell  and  murmured, 

"  Mighty  one  !  how  blest  my  fate 
In  the  forest  thus  to  find  thee  — 

I  so  low  and  thou  so  great !  " 
Breathless  then  I  sought  the  temple, 

Calling  high  o'er  hymn  and  prayer, 
"  Leave  your  chant,  O  priests,  and  offer 

Thanks  and  gifts  beyond  compare  ! 


24  IN  OLD  SIAM. 

What  is  Kandy's  Tooth,  or  Footprint, 
To  a  living,  present  lord  ?  — 

Tell  the  rulers !  rouse  the  soldiers ! 
Bid  your  fairest  scribe  record 
I  have  seen  him  on  the  sward, 
The  White  Elephant,  a  Buddha!  " 

How  we  bore  him  to  the  palace 
Down  Meinam's  rejoicing  tide  !  — 

I  a  noble  now  and  honored, 

Standing  proud  my  King  beside. 

Trumpets  blew  and  cannon  thundered  ; 
Chimed  the  sweet  pagoda  bells  ; 

On  his  forehead  holy  water 

Princes  poured  from  jewelled  shells ; 

Every  temple  heaped  its  altars  ; 
Every  town  was  wild  with  glee  ; 

So  with  song  and  shout  and  splendor 
To  the  palace  home  came  he, 
To  his  shrine  that  fronts  the  sea,  — 
The  White  Elephant,  a  Buddha ! 


EL  MAHDI   TO   THE   TRIBES   OF   THE 
SOUDAN.6 

(1884.) 

I  HAVE  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord 

As  the  Prophet  heard,  of  old ; 
For  me  have  the  blessed  angels 

The  Book  of  Fate  unrolled  ; 
Gabriel,  holiest,  highest, 

Flashed  to  my  cave,  from  the  sky, 
And  cried,  as  the  dawn  illumed  the  east, 

"  Wake  !  for  the  end  is  nigh ! 
Speed  !  for  't  is  thine  to  save  the  saints 

And  their  proud  oppressors  slay, 
And  to  fill  the  earth  with  righteousness 

Before  the  Judgment-Day  ! " 

Then  he  was  gone  as  the  lightning  goes  ; 

And  my  heart  leapt  up  as  flame ; 
And  forth  I  rushed  to  the  Holy  War 

For  the  glory  of  Allah's  name  ! 
And  rippling  river  and  rustling  reeds 

And  the  wind  of  the  desert  sighing, 
Echoed  his  cry  as  I  passed  them  by, 

"  Speed  !  for  the  hours  are  flying  !  " 
The  sunbeams  shone  like  lances  keen 

Across  the  Meccan  plain  ; 


26  EL  MAHDI  TO   THE  TRIBES. 

The  roar  of  hosts  was  in  my  ears, 

Their  fury  in  my  brain, 
And  I  vowed  to  the  God  of  the  Faithful 

His  Prophet  alone  should  reign  ! 

Now  who  is  on  the  side  of  God 

To  fight  this  fight  with  me,  — 
To  break  the  ranks  of  the  Infidels 

And  hurl  them  back  to  the  sea, 
And  all  this  tortured,  trampled  land 

From  greed  and  spoil  to  free  ? 
This  land  where  the  bitter  cry  goes  up 

From  even  the  lips  of  the  dumb : 
"  Mata  yathar  El  Mahdi  — 

When  will  the  Mahdi  come  ?  " 
Who  yearns  for  bliss  in  Paradise  ? 

Who  fears  eternal  flame  ? 
Let  him  follow  me  to  the  Holy  War 

For  the  glory  of  Allah's  name ! 
Leave  your  flocks  on  the  grassy  hills 

Of  cool  Atbara's  stream  ; 
Under  the  palms  by  the  lonely  wells 

No  more  at  noontide  dream  ; 
From  Nile's  fair  groves  and  uplands, 

From  meadow  and  marsh  and  mere, 
Throng  to  the  Crescent  banner 

With  lance  and  shield  and  spear ! 
Come  on  your  flying  stallions 

From  lordly  Darfur's  side  ; 
Bold  from  Sahara's  burning  depths 

On  your  swift  camels  ride  ; 


EL  MAHDI  TO  THE  TRIBES  27 

The  sun  by  day  shall  bid  you  speed, 

By  night  each  guiding  star, 
Through  the  thorny  wastes  of  Kordofan, 

The  wide  plains  of  Sennaar  ! 
And  from  Fez  and  far  Morocco, 

From  Yemen  and  Hejaz,  — 
For  round  the  world  to  the  Faithful, 

This  fire  of  God  shall  blaze  — 
And  from  the  realms  of  the  Indian  sea, 

And  isles  of  spice  and  balm, 
Shall  a  thousand  thousand  hither  haste 

For  the  glory  of  Islam  ! 

And  as  in  the  valley  of  Bedr, 

When  the  Moslems  charged  the  foe, 
The  angels  stooped  to  the  stormy  pass 

And  laid  the  faithless  low, 
So  shall  they  watch  my  standard, 

And  all  along  our  line 
Will  hover  their  shining  legions 

And  the  battle  be  divine  ! 
For  Azrael,  the  Death-angel, 

With  a  banner  made  of  light, 
And  eyes  that  burn  like  the  star  of  morn, 

Will  lead  us  in  the  fight. 
And  should  you  fall  in  the  conflict,  — 

O  glorious,  glad  surprise  ! 
White-winged  camels  will  bear  you  thence 

To  the  bowers  of  Paradise  ! 
Up  to  the  crystal  fountains 

And  the  feast  of  the  Tuba  tree, 


28  EL  MAHDI  TO  THE  TRIBES. 

The  songs  of  Israfil  to  hear, 
The  face  of  God  to  see  ! 

Allah  !  I  long  for  the  onset ! 

Moslems !  welcome  the  day 
When  forth  in  the  rosy  dawn  we  sweep 

As  victors  to  the  fray  ! 
For  fierce  as  the  lion  leaping 

At  night  from  his  woody  lair  ; 
Dread  as  the  hot  simoom  whose  breath 

No  living  thing  may  dare  ; 
Strong  as  the  sun  when  he  mounts  the  sky 

To  bathe  in  the  western  sea  — 
So  fierce,  to  the  godless  of  the  earth, 

So  dread,  so  strong  are  we  ! 
And  by  the  soul  of  Mohammed  — 

Nay,  by  the  Throne  of  God  — 
The  Infidel  and  the  Spoiler 

Shall  into  the  dust  be  trod, 
And  away  by  the  winds  of  heaven 

As  worthless  chaff  be  blown, 
And  the  Prophet  and  true  Believers 

Shall  rule  in  the  earth  alone  ! 


"THE   PRAYER  IN  THE   DESERT." 

(PAINTED  BY  GER6ME.) 

SERENE,  alone,  the  Arab  stands ; 
Behind  him  stretch  the  solemn  sands 
Back  to  the  barren  hills  that  lie, 
A  tawny  ridge,  against  the  sky. 
Slow-winding  from  their  dim  defiles 
O'er  scorching  waste  and  sedgy  isles, 
From  lordly  Cairo,  Mecca-bound, 
Threading  the  plain  without  a  sound 
Save  when  the  burdened  camels  groan 
Or  tents  are  pitched  by  fountain-stone, 
The  long-drawn  caravan  is  seen 
Wrapped  in  the  desert's  blinding  sheen. 

No  muezzin  calls  from  minaret, 
Though  clear  the  fiery  sun  has  set ; 
But  waste  and  hill  and  brooding  sky 
Have  stirred  his  soul  to  deep  reply, 
And  he,  the  chief  of  all  his  tribe, 
Has  spurred  him  forward  to  ascribe 
Glory  to  Allah,  ere  the  gloom 
And  fierceness  of  the  dread  simoom 
Shall  overwhelm,  or  failing  well 
No  pilgrim  spare,  His  power  to  tell. 


30      "THE  PEAYEE  IN  THE  DESEET." 

He  plants  his  lance  ;  his  steed  he  frees  ; 
Light,  from  the  north,  the  rising  breeze 
Lifts  the  hot  cloud,  and  moans  away 
Down  to  some  Petra's  still  decay, 
Sad,  as  if  wailing  fall  and  rise 
Were  won  from  dying  pilgrims'  sighs,  — 
Their  couch  by  billowy  sands  o'erblown 
Where  Azrael  keeps  watch  alone. 
And  now,  his  sandals'  thongs  unbound, 
The  desert  space  is  holy  ground ; 
No  more  he  sees  the  weary  train, 
The  sombre  hills,  the  burning  plain, 
But  greenest  fields  of  Paradise 
Shine  fair  before  his  ravished  eyes. 
He  hears  the  flow  of  crystal  streams  ; 
He  sees  the  wondrous  light  that  gleams 
From  Allah's  throne,  ablaze  with  gems, 
And,  far  below,  the  slender  stems 
Of  plumy  palms,  whose  ripe  dates  fall 
When  winds  blow  cool  across  the  wall ; 
While  sweeter  than  the  bulbul's  note 

Within  the  dusk  pomegranate-bowers, 
When  its  full  soul  it  fain  would  float 

Forth  to  their  yearning,  flaming  flowers, 
The  voice  of  angel  Israfil 

Comes  winding,  warbling  through  the  air, 
O  that  't  were  resurrection's  peal, 

And  he,  the  dead,  might  waken  there  — 
Waken  and  follow  Eden-ward, 
Lost  in  the  splendor  of  the  Lord  ! 


"THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  DESERT."      31 

Soon  will  his  comrades  round  him  throng, 
While  tents  are  pitched  with  jest  and  song ; 
But  not  the  night-dews,  chill  and  fleet, 
Nor  noon-tide's  burning,  blasting  heat, 
Nor  red  simoom,  nor  mocking  well 
Can  break  his  vision's  sacred  spell, 
Or  lure  his  joy  that  forward  flies 
To  build  and  sing  in  fairer  skies. 

O  Arab !  we  are  one  with  thee ! 
All  day  we  rove  some  desert  sea ; 
The  winds  are  dead,  the  wells  are  dry, 
Above  us  flames  the  torrid  sky  ; 
And  only  in  some  twilight  calm, 
When  fires  are  spent  and  air  is  balm, 
Beyond  our  griefs  and  fears  we  ride  ; 
Our  sandal-cares  we  cast  aside  ; 
The  clouds  of  doubt  are  backward  blown, 
And  lo !  we  meet  the  Lord  alone  ! 
1863. 


THE  VIRGIN   OF   ST.   MARK'S.6 

(THE  SACRISTAN'S  STORY.) 

HID  in  a  secret  recess 

Of  our  most  holy  shrine, 
St.  Mark's,  the  pride  of  Venice, 

Is  a  picture  all  divine,  — 
The  Virgin  and  infant  Jesus 

St.  Luke,  enraptured,  wrought, 
And  Dandolo,  the  mighty  Doge, 

Home  from  Byzantium  brought ; 
Not  the  Madonna  of  the  wall  — 

That  sad,  enshrouded  star  — 
But  the  gem  the  Caesars  bore  afield 

In  their  imperial  car ! 
Her  eyes  have  the  tint  of  olives ; 

Her  brow  is  fair  as  wheat ; 
And  her  snowy  veil  and  violet  robe 

Fall  chastely  to  her  feet, 
As  on  the  beaming,  beauteous  Babe 

She  smiles  celestial-sweet. 

The  Turks  —  a  shameless,  godless  horde 
Doomed  to  eternal  fire  — 


THE  VIRGIN  OF  ST.  MARK'S.          33 

Say  from  Sophia's  altar-screen 

They  dragged  it  in  the  mire  ! 
Say  that  beneath  their  horses'  hoofs 

In  scorn  't  was  trodden  down 
When  fierce  Mohammed  sacked  the  church 

And  seized  Byzantium's  crown  ! 
They  did  not  know  that  Dandolo, 

Two  hundred  years  before, 
Safe  to  St.  Mark's  of  Venice 

The  priceless  Image  bore  ; 
And  all  the  while  Our  Lady  kept 

Beneath  these  domes  her  rest,  — 
The  peace  of  God  within  her  heart, 

The  Babe  upon  her  breast, 
And  only  songs  of  praise  to  stir 

The  violet  of  her  vest. 

But  the  spring  that  guards  the  treasure 

Nor  priest  nor  Pope  can  find ; 
And  here,  while  the  ages  pass,  it  lies 

In  the  gorgeous  pile  enshrined,  — 
The  Virgin  with  eyes  as  olives  dark, 

And  brow  as  fair  as  wheat, 
And  veil  and  robe  like  angels'  wings 

Folded  down  to  her  feet ; 
Pure  as  the  whitest  lily 

Blown  in  the  heavenly  garden, 
Where  the  saints  in  perfect  bliss  do  walk, 

And  the  Lord  himself  is  warden  ! 


34  THE  VIRGIN  OF  ST.  MARKS. 

Yet  the  chants  and  the  blessed  incense 

Steal  to  her  secret  door ; 
She  hears  the  prayers  at  the  altar 

Her  gracious  help  implore ; 
And  knows  the  lion  of  St.  Mark 

Keeps  watch  forevermore ! 


MATINS  AT  ST.  MARY'S.7 

RICHARD,  the  Lion-hearted, 

Parting  for  Palestine, 
In  lone  St.  Mary's  Abbey, 

Knelt  at  Our  Lady's  shrine  ; 
And  begged  that  the  Abbot's  blessing, 

And  the  monks'  prevailing  prayer, 
Might  follow  him  over  the  waters, 

And  the  deserts  hot  and  bare. 

"  God  be  praised !  "  quoth  the  Abbot, 
"  By  Holy  Rood  I  swear 
That  at  matins  and  sext  and  compline, 

Through  the  church's  sacred  air, 
Petitions  shall  rise  to  Heaven 

That  the  wave  and  the  shore  may  be 
Safe  for  our  Sovereign,  Richard, 

Till  Conqueror  home  comes  he !  " 

The  moon  of  another  April 
Shone  on  the  Eastern  main  ; 

And  sailing  by  rocky  Cyprus, 
The  Holy  Land  to  gain, 

Were  the  King  and  his  Norman  nobles 
When  out  of  the  south  there  blew 


36  MATINS  AT  ST.  MARY'S. 

The  blast  of  the  dread  sirocco  — 
And  away  the  good  ship  flew ! 

Into  the  blinding  darkness, 
Into  the  howling  storm, 
While  the  salt  spray  wreathed  before  her 

A  beckoning,  demon  form. 
"  Mary,  have  mercy  !  "  the  sailors 

Shrieked  as  the  masts  went  down ; 
"  Bitter  is  death,"  sighed  the  nobles, 
"  So  near  to  our  glory's  crown  !  " 

Leaning  over  the  bulwarks, 

Richard,  risen  from  rest, 
With  his  white  brow  bared  to  the  tempest, 

And  his  blue  eyes  turned  to  the  West, 
Cried,  in  a  voice  of  anguish 

That  rung  o'er  the  foaming  sea, 
"  Would  God  it  were  time  for  matins, 

And  the  gray  monks  prayed  for  me ! " 

Meanwhile,  on  the  fields  of  England 

The  dew  distilled  its  balm, 
And  the  lone  Cistercian  Abbey 

Slept  in  the  midnight  calm  — 
Till  the  moon  had  passed  the  zenith, 

And  the  watch  of  morning  fell, 
When,  over  meadow  and  moorland, 

Rung  clear  the  matin-bell. 


MATINS  AT  ST.  MARY'S.  37 

Then,  through  the  silent  cloisters, 

And  under  the  arches  dim, 
Abbot,  and  monk,  and  prior, 

Chanting  a  holy  hymn,  — 
While  the  flame  of  the  stone-hewn  cressets 

Flared  with  its  rise  and  fall, 
And  the  Virgin  smiled  serenely 

From  her  niche  in  the  lofty  wall,  — 

Entered  the  aisle  to  the  altar, 

And  knelt  with  the  fervent  prayer 

That  still,  for  their  Sovereign,  Richard, 

The  winds  might  be  soft  and  fair. 
'  Bless  him,  O  Lord,"  quoth  the  Abbot, 

"  And  bring  him  in  peace  again 

With  the  sign  of  our  faith  triumphant !  " 
And  the  monks  said  low,  "  Amen !  " 

That  moment,  over  the  tempest, 
A  lull  stole  out  of  the  West, 
And  the  ship  rocked,  light  as  a  sea-bird 

Asleep  on  the  ocean's  breast. 
*  Lord  of  my  life,"  cried  Richard, 
"  Thine  shall  the  glory  be ! 
I  know  't  is  the  hour  for  matins, 

And  the  gray  monks  pray  for  me !  " 


THE    RUSSIAN'S    DREAM    OF    CON 
STANTINOPLE. 

HAIL  to  the  glorious  morning 

When  the  Cross  again  shall  shine 
On  the  summit  of  Saint  Sophia, 

O  city  of  Constantino  ! 
And  that  day  of  sack  and  slaughter 

When  the  wild,  despairing  cries 
Of  "  Kyrie  Eleison !  "  fainter 

Went  wailing  up  to  the  skies, 
Shall  be  lost  in  the  splendid  triumph 

As  the  Church  reclaims  her  own, 
And  the  Patriarch  welcomes  our  Lord,  the  Czar, 

To  the  Caesars'  ancient  throne  ! 

Shame  to  the  laggard  Latins  ! 

Shame  to  the  grovelling  Greeks ! 
The  crescent  above  Sophia's  dome 

Their  foul  dishonor  speaks ! 
But,  over  Holy  Russia, 

Its  Cross  triumphant  towers, 
And  the  creed  and  the  crown  of  Constantino 

Alike  shall  yet  be  ours  ; 
And  the  grandeur  of  our  dominion 

For  the  woes  of  the  past  atone, 


THE  RUSSIAN'S  DEE  AM.  39 

When  the  Patriarch  welcomes  our  Lord,  the  Czar, 
To  the  Caesars'  ancient  throne ! 

In  the  sky  of  the  south,  at  midnight, 

We  have  seen  God's  flaming  sign, 
And  we  know  He  will  drive  the  Moslem  horde, 

In  wrath,  from  his  sacred  shrine  ! 
Silent  will  be  the  muezzin 

As  the  sun  on  Asia  sets ; 
Folded  the  crescent  banner  ; 

Crumbled  the  minarets. 
Then,  under  that  dome  of  glory, 

Victorious  chants  we  '11  raise, 
While  the  saints  look  down  with  loving  eyes, 

And  the  gems  of  the  altar  blaze  ! 
Hail  to  the  day  when  the  Eagles 

And  the  Cross  shall  gain  their  own, 
As  the  Patriarch  welcomes  our  Lord,  the  Czar, 

To  the  Caesars'  ancient  throne ! 


HOLY  RUSSIA. 

(SERGIUS  OF  TKOITSA,  loquitur.) 

HAVE  you  heard  how  Holy  Russia 

Is  guarded,  night  and  day, 
By  saints  gone  home  to  the  world  of  light, 

Yet  watching  her  realm  for  aye  ?  — 
Nicholas,  Vladimir,  Michael, 

Catharine,  Olga,  Anna ; 
Barbara,  borne  from  her  silent  tower 

To  the  angels'  glad  hosanna ; 
Cyril,  Ivan,  Alexander, 

Sergius,  Feodor ; 
Basil,  the  bishop  beloved, 

And  a  thousand  thousand  more. 
They  walk  the  streets  of  the  city, 

Waving  their  stately  palms. 
And  the  river  that  runs  by  the  Father's  throne 

Keeps  time  to  their  joyous  psalms. 
But  they  do  not  forget,  in  their  rapture, 

The  land  of  their  love  below ; 
Blessing  they  send  to  its  poorest  friend, 

Defiance  to  proudest  foe. 
So  in  cloister,  and  palace,  and  cottage, 

Cathedral,  and  wayside  shrine, 


HOLY  EUSSIA.  41 

We  cherish  their  sacred  Icons, 

Token  of  care  divine  ; 
And  with  beaten  gold  in  fret  and  fold, 

And  gems  the  Czar  might  wear, 
And  costliest  pearls  of  the  Indian  seas, 

We  make  their  vesture  fair. 
We  set  them  along  our  altars 

In  many  a  gorgeous  row, 
The  blessed  Saviour  in  their  midst, 

And  the  Virgin,  pure  as  snow  ; 
And  lamps  we  hang  before  them, 

Soft  as  the  star  that  shines 
In  the.  rosy  west,  when  the  purple  clouds 

Drift  dark  above  the  pines. 
The  deep  chants  ring  ;  the  censers  swing 

In  wreaths  of  fragrance  by  ; 
And  there  we  bend,  while  our  prayers  ascend 

To  their  waiting  hearts  on  high  ; 
And  our  Lord,  and  Mary -Mother, 

With  faces  sweet  and  grave, 
Remembering  all  their  tears  and  woes, 

Grant  every  boon  they  crave. 

Have  you  heard  that  each  true-born  Russian, 

Child  of  the  Lord  in  baptism, 
Receives  some  name  of  the  shining  ones 

With  the  touch  of  the  precious  chrism  ?  — 
And  the  saint,  thenceforth,  is  his  angel  ; 

Ready,  through  gloom  or  sun, 
To  share  his  sorrows  and  cheer  his  way 

Till  his  earthly  years  are  done. 


42  HOLY  RUSSIA. 

When  friends  have  fled,  and  love  is  lost, 

And  darkest  ills  betide, 
There 's  a  gleam  of  wings  athwart  the  sky, 

And  the  peace  of  the  glorified 
Falls  on  his  soul  as  the  gentle  dew 

Descends  on  the  parching  plain,  — 
And  he  knows  that  his  angel  heard  his  sighs 

And  stooped  to  heal  his  pain. 
Nor  cares  he  when,  or  where,  or  how 

The  hour  of  his  death  may  come, 
For  the  Lord  of  the  saints  will  welcome  him, 

And  his  angel  bear  him  home. 
And,  to  mark  his  faith's  devotion, 

As  a  jewel  of  love  and  pride 
He  bears  on  his  breast  forever 

The  cross  of  the  Crucified  ;  — 
Bright  with  rubies  and  diamonds, 

Fashioned  of  silver  and  gold, 
Or  only  carved  from  the  cedar 

That  grows  on  the  windy  wold ; 
Cut  from  a  stone  of  the  Ourals, 

Or  the  amber  that  strews  the  shore  ;  — 
Close  to  his  heart  he  wears  it 

Till  his  pulses  beat  no  more. 

O  happy,  Holy  Russia ! 

Thrice  favored  of  the  Lord ! 
Around  whose  towers,  when  danger  lowers, 

The  saints  keep  watch  and  ward ! 
She  need  not  fear  the  marshalled  hosts 

Of  her  haughtiest  Christian  foe  ; 


HOLT  RUSSIA.  43 

Nor  Islam's  hate,  though  at  Moscow's  gate 

The  stormy  bugles  blow  ! 
Fair  will  her  eagle -banners  float 

Above  Sophia's  dome, 
When  heaven  shall  bring  her  righteous  Czar 

In  triumph  to  his  Rome  ; 
And  Constantine  and  Helena 

Will  "  Alleluia !  "  cry, 
To  see  the  cross  victorious 

In  their  imperial  sky. 
Ah  !  what  a  day  when  all  the  way 

To  Marmora's  sunny  sea  — 
From  Finland's  snows  to  fields  of  rose  — 

Shall  Holy  Russia  be  ! 


OUR  Country  !  whose  eagle  exults  as  he  flies 
In  the  splendor  of  noonday,  broad-breasting  the  skies, 
That  from  ocean  to  ocean  the  Land  overblown 
By  the  winds  and  the  shadows  is  Liberty's  own,  — 
We  hail  thee,  we  crown  thee  !     To  east  and  to  west 
God  keep  thee  the  purest,  the  noblest,  the  best ; 
While  all  thy  domain  with  a  people  He  fills 
As  free  as  thy  winds  and  as  firm  as  thy  hills  ! 


YOSEMITE. 

MOST  glorious  Temple  !  open  flung 

Are  all  thy  sculptured  doors  ; 
Thy  mellow  chimes  are  hourly  rung, 
Thy  Jubilates  ceaseless-sung, 

And  o'er  thy  grassy  floors 
Reverent  I  walk,  and  let  my  prayers 
Waft  heavenward  with  the  morning  airs. 

Thy  choirs  are  streams  that,  thundering,  leap 

The  mountain  barriers  down ; 
The  winds  that  wail  by  gorge  and  steep ; 
The  brooks  through  sunny  meads  that  sweep 

Or  foam  where  canons  frown  ; 
And  crags,  and  groves  by  crystal  falls, 
Thy  altars  and  confessionals. 

Perpetual  masses  here  intone  ; 

Uncounted  censers  swing  ; 
A  psalm  on  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
The  echoing  peaks  from  throne  to  throne 

Greet  the  indwelling  King ;  — 
The  Lord,  the  Lord  is  everywhere, 
And  seraph-tongued  are  earth  and  air  ! 


THE  LOST   WAR-SLOOP. 

(THE  WASP,  1814.) 

O  THE  pride  of  Portsmouth  water, 

Toast  of  every  brimming  beaker,  — 

Eighteen   hundred   and   fourteen   on   land   and 

sea,  — 

Was  the  Wasp,  the  gallant  war-sloop, 
Built  of  oaks  Kearsarge  had  guarded, 
Pines  of  Maine  to  lift  her  colors  high  and  free  ! 
Every  timber  scorning  cowards  ; 
Every  port  alert  for  foemen 
From    the   masthead    seen   on   weather-side   or 

lee ;  — 

With  eleven  guns  to  starboard, 
And  eleven  guns  to  larboard, 
All  for  glory  on  a  morn  of  May  sailed  she. 

British  ships  were  in  the  offing  ; 

Swift  and  light  she  sped  between  them,  — 

Well  her  daring  crew  knew  shoal  and  wind  and 

tide; 

They  had  come  from  Portsmouth  river, 
Sea-girt  Marblehead  and  Salem, 
Bays  and  islands  where  the  fisher-folk  abide  ; 


THE  LOST  WAR-SLOOP.  49 

Come  for  love  of  home  and  country, 

Come  with  wrongs  that  cried  for  vengeance,  — 

Every  man  among   them   brave  and   true  and 

tried. 

"  Hearts  of  oak  "  are  British  seamen  ? 
Hearts  of  fire  were  these,  their  kindred, 
Flaming  till  the  haughty  foe  should  be  descried  ! 

From  the  mountains,  from  the  prairies, 

Blew  the  west  winds  glad  to  waft  her ;  — 

Ah,   what   goodly  ships   before   her  guns  went 

down ! 

Ships  with  wealth  of  London  laden, 
Ships  with  treasures  of  the  Indies, 
Till  her  name  brought  fear  to  British  wharf  and 

town  ; 

Till  the  war-sloops  Reindeer,  Avon, 
To  her  valor  struck  their  colors, 
Making  coast  and  ocean  ring  with  her  renown  ; 
While  her  captain  cried,  exultant, 
"  Britain,  to  the  bold  Republic, 
Of  the  empire  of  the  seas  shall  yield  the  crown  !  " 

Oh,  the  woful,  woful  ending 

Of  the  pride  of  Portsmouth  water ! 

Never  more  to  harbor  nor  to  shore  came  she ! 

Springs  returned  but  brought  no  tidings ; 

Mothers,  maidens,  broken-hearted, 

Wept  the  gallant  lads  that  sailed  away  in  glee. 

Did  the  bolts  of  heaven  blast  her  ? 


50  THE  LOST  WAR-SLOOP. 

Did  the  hurricanes  o'erwhelm  her 

With  her  starry  banner  and  her  tall  masts  three  ? 

Was  a  pirate-fleet  her  captor  ? 

Did  she  drift  to  polar  oceans  ? 

Who  shall  tell  the  awful  secret  of  the  sea ! 

Who  shall  tell  ?  yet  many  a  sailor 
In  his  watch  at  dawn  or  midnight, 
When  the  wind  is  wildest  and  the  black  waves 

moan, 

Sees  a  stanch  three-master  looming ; 
Hears  the  hurried  call  to  quarters, 
The  drum's  quick  beat  and    the  bugle  fiercely 

blown  ;  — 

Then  the  cannon's  direful  thunder 
Echoes  far  along  the  billows  ; 
Then  the  victor's  shout  for  the  foe  overthrown  ;  — • 
And  the  watcher  knows  the  phantom 
Is  the  Wasp,  the  gallant  war-sloop, 
Still  a  rover  of  the  seas  and  glory's  own  ! 


THE   BROOKLYN   BRIDGE. 

A  GRANITE  cliff  on  either  shore, 

A  highway  poised  in  air  ; 
Above,  the  wheels  of  traffic  roar, 

Below,  the  fleets  sail  fair  ;  — 
And  in  and  out  forevermore 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  the  towers  the  white  gulls  soar 

And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear. 

O  peerless  this  majestic  street, 

This  road  that  leaps  the  brine ! 
Upon  its  height  twin  cities  meet 

And  throng  its  grand  incline,  — 
To  east,  to  west,  with  swiftest  feet, 
Though  ice  may  crash  and  billows  beat, 
Though  blinding  fogs  the  wave  may  greet, 
Or  golden  summer  shine. 

Sail  up  the  Bay  with  morning's  beam, 

Or  rocky  Hellgate  by,  — 
Its  columns  rise,  its  cables  gleam, 

Great  tents  athwart  the  sky  ! 
And  lone  it  looms,  august,  supreme, 
When,  with  the  splendor  of  a  dream, 
Its  blazing  cressets  gild  the  stream 

Till  evening  shadows  fly. 


52  THE  BROOKLYN  BRIDGE. 

By  Nile  stand  proud  the  pyramids, 
But  they  were  for  the  dead  ; 

The  awful  gloom  that  joy  forbids, 
The  mourners'  silent  tread, 

The  crypt,  the  coffin's  stony  lids,  — 

Sad  as  a  soul  the  maze  that  thrids 

Of  dark  Amenti,  ere  it  rids 
Its  way  of  judgment  dread. 

This  glorious  arch,  these  climbing  towers, 

Are  all  for  life  and  cheer  ! 
Part  of  the  new  world's  nobler  dowers  ; 

Hint  of  millennial  year 
That  comes  apace,  though  evil  lowers,  — 
When  loftier  aims  and  larger  powers 
Shall  mould  and  deck  this  earth  of  ours, 

And  heaven  at  length  bring  near  ! 

Unmoved  its  cliffs  shall  crown  the  shore ; 

Its  arch  the  chasm  dare  ; 
Its  network  hang,  the  blue  before, 

As  gossamer  in  air  ; 
While  in  and  out  forevermore 
The  surging  tides  of  ocean  pour, 
And  past  its  towers  the  white  gulls  soar 

And  winds  the  sea-clouds  bear. 


THE   MOUNTAIN  MAID. 

O  THE  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire  ! 

Her  steps  are  light  and  free 
Whether  she  treads  the  lofty  heights 

Or  follows  the  brooks  to  the  sea ! 
Her  eyes  are  clear  as  the  skies  that  hang 

Over  her  hills  of  snow, 
And  her  hair  is  dark  as  the  densest  shade 

That  falls  where  the  fir-trees  grow  — 
The  fir-trees  slender  and  sombre 

That  climb  from  the  vales  below. 

Sweet  is  her  voice  as  the  robin's 

In  a  lull  of  the  wind  of  March 
Wooing  the  shy  arbutus 

At  the  roots  of  the  budding  larch ; 
And  rich  as  the  ravishing  echoes 

On  still  Franconia's  lake 
When  the  boatman  winds  his  magic  horn 

And  the  tongues  of  the  wood  awake, 
While  the  huge  Stone-Face  forgets  to  frown 

And  the  hare  peeps  out  of  the  brake. 

The  blasts  of  stormy  December 

But  brighten  the  bloom  on  her  cheek, 

And  the  snows  build  her  statelier  temples 
Than  to  goddess  were  reared  by  the  Greek. 


54  THE  MOUNTAIN  MAID. 

She  welcomes  the  fervid  summer, 
And  flies  to  the  sounding  shore 

Where  bleak  Boar's  Head  looks  seaward, 
Set  in  the  billows'  roar, 

And  dreams  of  her  sailors  and  fishers 
Till  cool  days  come  once  more. 

Then  how  fair  is  the  maiden, 

Crowned  with  the  scarlet  leaves, 
And  wrapped  in  the  tender,  misty  veil 

The  Indian  summer  weaves  !  — 
While  the  aster  blue,  and  the  goldenrod, 

And  immortelles,  clustering  sweet, 
From  Canada  down  to  the  sea  have  spread 

A  carpet  for  her  feet ; 
And  the  faint  witch-hazel  buds  unfold, 

Her  latest  smile  to  greet. 

She  loves  the  song  of  the  reaper ; 

The  ring  of  the  woodman's  steel  j 
The  whir  of  the  glancing  shuttle  ; 

The  rush  of  the  tireless  wheel. 
But  if  war  befalls,  her  sons  she  calls 

From  mill  and  forge  and  lea, 
And  bids  them  uphold  her  banner 

Till  the  land  from  strife  is  free ; 
And  she  hews  her  oaks  into  mighty  ships 

That  sweep  the  foe  from  the  sea. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  MAID.  55 

0  the  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire  ! 
For  beauty  and  wit  and  will 

1  '11  pledge  her,  in  draughts  from  her  crystal 

springs, 

As  rarest  on  plain  or  hill ! 
New  York  is  a  princess  in  purple 

By  the  gems  of  her  cities  crowned ; 
Illinois  with  the  garland  of  Ceres 

Her  tresses  of  gold  has  bound, 
Queen  of  the  limitless  prairies 

Whose  great  sheaves  heap  the  ground ; 

And  out  by  the  broad  Pacific 

Their  gay  young  sisters  say, 
"  Ours  are  the  mines  of  the  Indies, 

And  the  treasures  of  far  Cathay  ; " 
And  the  dames  of  the  South  walk  proudly 

Where  the  fig  and  the  orange  fall, 
And  hid  in  the  high  magnolias 

The  mocking  thrushes  call ; 
But  the  Mountain  Maid,  New  Hampshire, 

Is  the  rarest  of  them  all ! 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.8 

"  A  GOODLY  realm  !  "  said  Captain  Smith, 
Scanning  the  coast  by  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
While  the  wind  blew  fair,  as  in  Indian  myth 
Blows  the  breeze  from  the  Land  of  Souls ; 
Blew  from  the  marshes  of  Hampton  spread 
Level  and  green  that  summer  day, 
And  over  the  brow  of  Great  Boar's  Head, 
From  the  pines  that  stretched  to  the  west  away  ; 
And  sunset  died  on  the  rippling  sea, 
Ere  to  the  south,  with  the  wind,  sailed  he. 
But  he  told  the  story  in  London  streets, 
And  again  to  court  and  Prince  and  King ; 
"  A  truce,"  men  cried,  "  to  Virginia's  heats  ; 
The  North  is  the  land  of  hope  and  spring !  " 
And  in  sixteen  hundred  and  twenty-three, 
For  Dover  meadows  and  Portsmouth  river, 
Bold  and  earnest  they  crossed  the  sea, 
And  the  realm  was  theirs  and  ours  forever ! 

Up  from  the  floods  of  Piscataqua, 
Slowly,  slowly  they  made  their  way 
Back  to  the  Merrimack's  eager  tide 
Poured  through  its  meadows  rich  and  wide  ; 
And  westward  turned  for  the  warmer  gales 
And  the  wealth  of  Connecticut's  intervales  ; 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.  57 

And  to  Winnipesaukee's  tranquil  sea, 

Bosomed  in  hills  and  bright  with  isles 

Where  the  alder  grows  and  the  dark  pine  tree, 

And  the  tired  wind  sleeps  and  the  sunlight  smiles  ; 

Up  and  on  to  the  mountains  piled, 

Peak  o'er  peak,  in  the  northern  air, 

Home  of  streams  and  of  winds  that  wild 

Torrent  and  tempest  valeward  bear,  — 

Where  the  great  Stone  Face  looms  changeless, 

calm 

As  the  Sphinx  that  couches  on  Egypt's  sands, 
And  the  fir  and  the  sassafras  yield  their  balm 
Sweet  as  the  odors  of  morning  lands,  — 
Where  the  eagle  floats  in  the  summer  noon, 
While  his  comrade  clouds  drift,  silent,  by, 
And  the  waters  fill  with  a  mystic  tune 
The  fane  the  cliffs  have  built  to  the  sky  ! 
And,  beyond,  to  the  woods  where  the  huge  moose 

browsed, 

And  the  dun  deer  drank  at  the  rill  unroused 
By  hound  or  horn,  and  the  partridge  brood 
Was  alone  in  the  leafy  solitude  ; 
And  the  lake  where  the  beaver  housed  her  young, 
And  the  loon's  shrill  cry  from  the  border  rung, 
The  lake  whence  the  Beauteous  River  flows, 
Its  fountains  fed  by  Canadian  snows. 

What  were  the  labors  of  Hercules 

To  the  toils  of  heroes  such  as  these  ?  — 

Guarding  their  homes  from  savage  foes 


58  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Cruel  as  fiends  in  craft  and  scorn  ; 

Felling  the  forest  with  mighty  blows  ; 

Planting  the  meadow  plots  with  corn ; 

Hunting  the  hungry  wolf  to  his  lair ; 

Trapping  the  panther  and  prowling  bear ; 

Bridging  the  river  ;  building  the  mill 

Where  the  stream  had  leapt  at  its  frolic  will ; 

Rearing,  in  faith  by  sorrow  tried, 

The  church  and  the  school-house,  side  by  side  ; 

Fighting  the  French  on  the  long  frontier, 

From  Louisburg,  set  in  the  sea's  domains, 

To  proud  Quebec  and  the  woods  that  hear 

Ohio  glide  to  the  sunset  plains  ; 

And  when  rest  and  comfort  they  yearned  to  see, 

Risking  their  all  to  be  nobly  free ! 

Honor  and  love  for  the  valiant  dead ! 

With  reverent  breath  let  their  names  be  read,  — 

Hiltons,  Pepperells,  Sullivans,  Weares, 

Broad  is  the  scroll  the  list  that  bears 

Of  men  as  ardent  and  brave  and  true 

As  ever  land  in  its  peril  knew, 

And  women  of  pure  and  glowing  lives, 

Meet  to  be  heroes'  mothers  and  wives  ! 

For  not  alone  for  the  golden  maize, 

And  the  fisher's  spoils  from  the  teeming  bays, 

And  the  treasures  of  forest,  and  hill,  and  mine 

They  gave  their  barks  to  the  stormy  brine,  — 

Liberty,  Learning,  righteous  Law 

Shone  in  the  vision  they  dimly  saw 


NEW  HAMPSHIRE.  59 

Of  the  Age  to  come  and  the  Land  to  be ; 

And,  looking  to  Heaven,  fervently 

They  labored  and  longed  through  the  dawning 

gray 
For  the  blessed  break  of  that  larger  day ! 

When  the  wail  of  Harvard  in  sore  distress 

Came  to  their  ears  through  the  wilderness,  — 

Harvard,  the  hope  of  the  colonies  twain, 

Planted  with  prayers  by  the  lonely  main  — 

It  was  loyal,  struggling  Portsmouth  town 

That  sent  this  gracious  message  down  : 

"  Wishing  our  gratitude  to  prove, 

And  the  country  and  General  Court  to  move 

For  the  infant  College  beset  with  fears, 

(Its  loss  an  omen  of  ill  would  be  !) 

We  promise  to  pay  it,  for  seven  years, 

Sixty  pounds  sterling,  an  annual  sum, 

Trusting  that  fuller  aid  will  come,"  — 

And  the  Court  and  the  country  heard  their  plea, 

And  the  sapling  grew  to  the  wide-boughed  tree. 

And  when  a  century  had  fled, 

And  the  war  for  Freedom  thrilled  with  dread 

Yet  welcome  summons  every  home,  — 

By  the  fire-lit  hearth,  'neath  the  starry  dome, 

They  vowed  that  never  their  love  should  wane 

For  the  holy  cause  they  burned  to  gain, 

Till  right  should  rule,  and  the  strife  be  done ! 

List  to  the  generous  deed  of  one  :  — 

In  the  Revolution's  darkest  days 


60  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

The  Legislature  at  Exeter  met ; 

Money  and  men  they  fain  would  raise, 

And  despair  on  every  face  was  set 

As  news  of  the  army's  need  was  read  ; 

Then,  in  the  hush,  John  Langdoii  said  ; 

"  Three  thousand  dollars  have  I  in  gold  ; 

For  as  much  I  will  pledge  the  plate  I  hold ; 

Eighty  casks  of  Tobago  rum  ; 

All  is  the  country's.     The  time  will  come, 

If  we  conquer,  when  amply  the  debt  she  '11  pay  ; 

If  we  fail,  our  property  's  worthless."  A  ray 

Of  hope  cheered  the  gloom,  while  the  Governor 
said  : 

"  For  a  regiment  now,  with  Stark  at  its  head  !  " 

And   the   boon  we   gained   through   the   noble 
lender 

Was  the   Bennington  day  and  Burgoyne's  sur 
render  !  " 

Conflict  over  and  weary  quest, 

Hid  in  their  hallowed  graves  they  rest ; 

Nor  the  voice  of  love,  nor  the  cannon's  roar 

Wins  them  to  field  or  fireside  more ! 

Did  the  glory  go  from  the  hills  with  them  ? 

Nay  !  for  the  sons  are  true  to  the  sires  ! 

And  the  gems  they  have  set  in  our  diadem 

Burn  with  as  rare  and  brilliant  fires, 

And  the  woodland  streams  and  the  mountain  airs 

Sing  of  the  fathers'  fame  with  theirs ! 

One,  in  the  shadow  of  lone  Kearsarge 


NEW  HAMPSHIEE.  61 

Nurtured  for  power,  like  the  fabled  charge 

Of  the  gods,  by  Pelion's  woody  marge  ; 

So  lofty  his  eloquence,  stately  his  mien, 

That,  could  he  have  walked  the  Olympian  plain, 

The  worshipping,  wondering  crowds  had  seen 

Jove  descend  o'er  the  feast  to  reign ! 

And  one,  with  a  brow  as  Balder's  fair, 

And  his  life  the  grandeur  of  love  and  peace  ;  — 

Easing  the  burdens  the  race  must  bear, 

Toiling  for  good  that  all  might  share, 

Till  his  white  soul  found  its  glad  release  ! 

And  one  —  a  tall  Corinthian  column, 

Of  the  temple  of  justice  prop  and  pride  — 

The  judge  unstained,  the  patriot  tried, 

Gone  to  the  bar  supernal,  solemn, 

Nor  left  his  peer  by  Themis'  side  ! 

Ah  !  when  the  Old  World  counts  her  kings. 

And  from  splendor  of  castle  and  palace  brings 

The  dainty  lords  her  monarchies  mould, 

We  '11  turn  to  the  hills  and  say,  "  Behold 

Webster  and  Greeley  and  Chase  for  three 

Princes  of  our  democracy  !  " 

Land  of  the  cliff,  the  stream,  the  pine, 

Blessing  and  honor  and  peace  be  thine  ! 

Still  may  thy  giant  mountains  rise, 

Lifting  their  snows  to  the  blue  of  June, 

And  the  south  wind  breathe  its  tenderest  sighs 

Over  thy  fields  in  the  harvest  moon  ! 

And  the  river  of  rivers,  Merriniack, 


62  NEW  HAMPSHIRE. 

Whose  current  never  shall  faint  or  lack 
While   the    lakes  and  the  bounteous  springs  re 
main,  — 

Welcome  the  myriad  brooks  and  rills 
Winding  through  meadows,  leaping  from  hills, 
To  brim  its  banks  for  the  waiting  wheels 
That  thrill  and  fly  to  its  dash  and  roar 
Till  the  rocks  are  passed,  and  the  sea-fog  steals 
Over  its  tide  by  Newbury's  shore  !  — 
For  the  river  of  rivers  is  Merrimack, 
Whether  it  foams  with  the  mountain  rain, 
Or  toils  in  the  mill-race,  deep  and  black, 
Or,  conqueror,  rolls  to  the  ocean  plain  ! 
And  still  may  the  hill,  the  vale,  the  glen, 
Give  thee  the  might  of  heroic  men, 
And  the  grace  of  women  pure  and  fair 
As  the  Mayflower's  bloom  when  the  woods  are 

bare ; 

And  Truth  and  Freedom  aye  find  in  thee 
Their  surest  warrant  of  victory  ;  — 
Land  of  fame  and  of  high  endeavor, 
Strength  and  glory  be  thine  forever ! 


ILLINOIS. 

DOMAIN  of  homes  and  herds  and  fields, 
Where  lavish  nature  richest  yields 
Through  summer's  heat  and  autumn's  shine 

Her  harvests'  bounteous  wealth  and  joy  ; 
No  star  upon  our  banner  set, 
No  gem  of  Freedom's  coronet, 
Burns  with  a  prouder  ray  than  thine  — 

Majestic  Illinois ! 

To  north  rolls  Michigan's  blue  deep  ; 

Ohio,  Mississippi,  sweep 

Thy  prairies  by  ;  and,  shrined  between, 

Our  Lincoln  slumbers,  past  annoy. 
What  grandeur  should  thy  people  own !  — 
Each  man  a  king,  each  home  a  throne, 
Each  woman  love's  and  honor's  queen,  — 

Majestic  Illinois  ! 


PEOKTA. 

(ILLINOIS.) 

O  THE  music  of  thy  name, 

Peoria ! 

When  with  May  thy  meadows  flame, 
When  the  wild  crab  woos  the  bees 
To  its  bowers,  and  Judas-trees 
Tint  thy  budding  woods  with  red ; 
When  from  all  thy  groves  and  leas, 
As  if  grief  and  care  were  dead, 
And  life  and  joy  forever  wed, 
Bluebirds,  thrushes,  orioles, 
In  rapturous  song  pour  forth  their  souls  ; 
Then  I  know  't  was  first  in  May 
Thy  Indian  lovers  came  this  way, 
And,  tranced  with  bloom  and  song  of  bird, 
Coined  thee  this  melodious  word,  — 
Sweet  as  far-off  bugle  note 
Fall  the  syllables  and  float  — 

Peoria ! 


THE  BLUE  ABOVE   POTOMAC. 

THE  fairest  clouds  that  deck  the  sky 

Above  Potomac's  tide  are  seen  ;  — 
The  soft  tints  of  the  sea-shell's  dye ; 
The  hues  that  in  Damascus  vie 
(Those  bowers  Barada  wanders  by) 

With  sunsets  Hermon  shines  between ; 
When  tranquil  evening's  latest  ray 
O'er  Tyre  and  Sidon  melts  away 
Through  gold  and  rose  and  violet 
Till  Sharon's  plain  with  dew  is  wet, 
And  the  hills  darken,  one  by  one, 
And  night  comes  down  on  Lebanon. 

Rare  as  the  cloud  by  Volga's  stream 

When  morning  over  Asia  shone  ; 
The  cloud  which  caught  its  crimson  beam 
And  sailed  o'er  earth  and  sky  supreme, 
Wrapped  in  that  fiery-purple  gleam  — 

An  eagle  from  the  Oural  blown, 
A  messenger  of  bliss  or  ban 
With  wide  wings  drifting  past  Kazan  ! 
And  dome  and  cross  and  minaret 
A  moment  in  its  bloom  were  set ; 
Then  flame  and  purple  paled  to  gray 
And  down  the  steppe  dissolved  in  day. 


66    THE  BLUE  ABOVE  POTOMAC. 

And  glows  as  warm  as  those  that  steep 

In  twilight  splendor  Egypt's  river, 
When  cool  the  winds  from  Philse  creep 
Past  Karnak's  immemorial  sleep 
And  Memnon's  watchers  fain  to  keep 
Their  gaze  adown  the  east  forever ! 
While,  north,  the  pyramids  recline, 
Wan  peaks  against  the  golden  shine, 
And  through  the  orange  dusk  the  plain 
Dims  to  the  desert  and  the  main  ;  — 
Such  morning  gleams,  such  evening  glows, 
The  blue  above  Potomac  knows. 


THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

HAVE  you  seen  by  Potomac  that  shaft  in  the 

skies, 
From  the  meadows  exulting  to  mate  with  the 

sun  ?  — 

Now  misty  and  gray  as  the  clouds  it  defies, 
Now  bright  in  the  splendor  its  daring  has  won ! 
The  winds  are  its  comrades,  the  lightnings,  the 

storm ; 

The  first  flush  of  dawn  on  its  summit  shines  fair ; 
And  the  last  ray  of  evening  illumines  its  form 
Towering  grand  and  alone  in  the  limitless  air. 

By  Nile  rise  the  Pyramids,  wrapped  in  the  shade 
Of  ages  that  passed  as  the  waves  on  the  shore  ; 
And  Karnak,  majestic,  whose  vast  colonnades 
A  god  might  have  fashioned  for  man  to  adore ; 
And  Baalbec  uplifts  like  a  vision  divine 
Its  wonder  of  beauty  by  Lebanon's  wall ;  — 
But  captive  and  slave  reared  in  sorrow  the  shrine, 
The  palace,  the  temple,  the  pyramid  tall. 

To  Freedom  Potomac's  proud  obelisk  towers, 
And  Karnak  and  Baalbec  in  beauty  outvies, 
For  Washington's  glory  its  grandeur  empowers, 
And  freemen  with  joy  piled  its  stones  to  the  skies  ! 


68        THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

O  Symbol  of  Liberty,  matchless,  sublime, 

Still  soar  from  the  meadows  to  mate  with  the 

sun, 

And  see  thy  Republic,  to  uttermost  time, 
The  noble,  the  peerless,  the  Many  in  One ! 


THE   LADY  OF  THE  WHITE  HOUSE. 

(1887.) 

SHE  bears  no  crown  upon  her  brow ; 

She  boasts  no  lineage  royal ; 
Her  dower  is  to  humanity 

A  heart  that 's  warm  and  loyal. 
The  proud  Republic's  child  is  she, 

The  sovereign  People's  daughter ; 
Her  winsomeness,  her  womanhood, 

Nature  and  Freedom  taught  her. 

No  herald  cries  before  her  path  ; 

No  frowning  guards  attend  her  ; 
Her  gracious  ways  proclaim  her  best, 

Her  smile  is  her  defender. 
Let  Kingdoms  pledge  their  regal  dames  — 

God  bless  the  People's  daughter  ! 
Her  winsomeness,  her  womanhood, 

Nature  and  Freedom  taught  her. 


KEARSARGE.9 

0  LIFT  thy  head,  thou  mountain  lone, 

And  mate  thee  with  the  sun  ! 
Thy  rosy  clouds  are  valeward  blown, 
Thy  stars  that  near  at  midnight  shone 

Gone  heavenward  one  by  one, 
And  half  of  earth,  and  half  of  air, 
Thou  risest  vast  and  gray  and  bare 

And  crowned  with  glory.     Far  southwest 

Monadnock  sinks  to  see, 
For  all  its  trees  and  towering  crest 
And  clear  Contoocook  from  its  breast 

Poured  down  for  wood  and  lea, 
How  statelier  still,  through  frost  and  dew, 
Thy  granite  cleaves  the  distant  blue. 

And  high  to  north,  from  fainter  sky, 

Franconia's  cliffs  look  down  ; 
Home  to  their  crags  the  eagles  fly, 
Deep  in  their  caves  the  echoes  die, 

The  sparkling  waters  frown, 
And  the  Great  Face  that  guards  the  glen 
Pales  with  the  pride  of  mortal  men. 


KEARSARGE.  71 

Nay,  from  their  silent,  crystal  seat 

The  White  Hills  scan  the  plain  ; 
Nor  Saco's  leaping,  lightsome  feet, 
Nor  Ammonoosuc  wild  to  greet 

The  meadows  and  the  main, 
Nor  snows  nor  thunders  can  atone 
For  splendor  thou  hast  made  thine  own. 

For  thou  hast  joined  the  immortal  band 

Of  hills  and  streams  and  plains 
Shrined  in  the  songs  of  native  land,  — 
Linked  with  the  deeds  of  valor  grand 

Told  when  the  bright  day  wanes,  — 
Part  of  the  nation's  life  art  thou, 
O  mountain  of  the  granite  brow ! 

Not  Pelion  when  the  Argo  rose, 

Grace  of  its  goodliest  trees  ; 
Nor  Norway  hills  when  woodmen's  blows 
Their  pines  sent  crashing  through  the  snows 

That  kings  might  rove  the  seas  ; 
Nor  heights  that  gave  the  Armada's  line, 
Thrilled  with  a  joy  so  pure  as  thine. 

Bold  was  the  ship  thy  name  that  bore  ; 

Strength  of  the  hills  was  hers  ; 
Heart  of  the  oaks  thy  pastures  store, 
The  pines  that  hear  the  north  wind  roar, 

The  dark  and  tapering  firs  ; 


72  KEAESARGE. 

Nor  Argonaut  nor  Viking  knew 
Sublimer  daring  than  her  crew. 

And  long  as  Freedom  fires  the  soul 

Or  mountains  pierce  the  air, 
Her  fame  shall  shine  on  honor's  scroll ; 
Thy  brow  shall  be  the  pilgrim's  goal 

Uplifted  broad  and  fair  ; 
And,  from  thy  skies,  inspiring  gales 
O'er  future  seas  shall  sweep  our  sails. 

Still  summer  keep  thy  pastures  green, 
And  clothe  thy  oaks  and  pines  ; 

Brooks  laugh  thy  rifted  rocks  between  ; 

Snows  fall  serenely  o'er  the  scene 
And  veil  thy  lofty  lines  ; 

While  crowned  and  peerless  thou  dost  stand, 

The  monarch  of  our  mountain-land. 


MONADNOCK  IN  OCTOBER. 

UPROSE  Monadnock  in  the  northern  blue, 
A  mighty  minster  builded  to  the  Lord  ! 
The  setting  sun  his  crimson  radiance  threw 
On  crest,  and  steep,  and  wood,  and  valley  sward, 
Blending  their  myriad  hues  in  rich  accord, 
Till  like  the  wall  of  heaven  it  towered  to  view. 
Along  its  slope,  where  russet  ferns  were  strewn 
And  purple  heaths,  the  scarlet  maples  flamed, 
And  reddening  oaks  and  golden  birches  shone,  — 
Resplendent  oriels  in  the  black  pines  framed, 
The  pines  that  climb  to  woo  the  winds  alone. 
And  down  its  cloisters  blew  the  evening  breeze, 
Through  courts  and  aisles  ablaze  with  autumn 

bloom, 

Till  shrine  and  portal  thrilled  to  harmonies 
Now  soaring,  dying  now  in  glade  and  gloom. 
And   with   the    wind    was   heard   the   voice    of 

streams,  — 

Constant  their  Aves  and  Te  Deums  be,  — 
Lone  Ashuelot  murmuring  down  the  lea, 
And  brooks  that  haste    where   shy  Contoocook 

gleams 
Through  groves  and  meadows,  broadening  to  the 

sea. 


74  MONADNOCK  IN  OCTOBER. 

Then  holy  twilight  fell  on  earth  and  air, 
Above  the  dome  the  stars  hung  faint  and  fair, 
And   the   vast    minster    hushed    its    shrines    in 

prayer ; 
While   all    the   lesser   heights   kept   watch  and 

ward 
About  Monadnock  builded  to  the  Lord ! 


CONTOOCOOK  EIVER.10 

OF  all  the  streams  that  seek  the  sea 

By  mountain  pass,  or  sunny  lea, 

Now  where  is  one  that  dares  to  vie 

With  clear  Contoocook,  swift  and  shy  ? 

Monadnock's  child,  of  snow-drifts  born, 

The  snows  of  many  a  winter  morn 

And  many  a  midnight  dark  and  still, 

Heaped  higher,  whiter,  day  by  day, 

To  melt,  at  last,  with  suns  of  May, 

And  steal,  in  tiny  fall  and  rill, 

Down  the  long  slopes  of  granite  gray  ; 

Or  filter  slow  through  seam  and  cleft 

When  frost  and  storm  the  rock  have  reft, 

To  bubble  cool  in  sheltered  springs 

Where  the  lone  red-bird  dips  his  wings, 

And  the  tired  fox  that  gains  their  brink 

Stoops,  safe  from  hound  and  horn,  to  drink. 

And  rills  and  springs,  grown  broad  and  deep, 

Unite  through  gorge  and  glen  to  sweep 

In  roaring  brooks  that  turn  and  take 

The  over-floods  of  pool  and  lake, 

Till,  to  the  fields,  the  hills  deliver 

Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming  river ! 


76  CONTOOCOOK  EIVER. 

O  have  you  seen,  from  Hillsboro'  town 
How  fast  its  tide  goes  hurrying  down, 
With  rapids  now,  and  now  a  leap 
Past  giant  boulders,  black  and  steep, 
Plunged  in  mid  water,  fain  to  keep 
Its  current  from  the  meadows  green  ? 
But,  flecked  with  foam,  it  speeds  along ; 
And  not  the  birch-tree's  silvery  sheen, 
Nor  the  soft  lull  of  murmuring  pines, 
Nor  hermit  thrushes,  fluting  low, 
Nor  ferns,  nor  cardinal  flowers  that  glow 
Where  clematis,  the  fairy,  twines, 
Nor  bowery  islands  where  the  breeze 
Forever  whispers  to  the  trees, 
Can  stay  its  course,  or  still  its  song  ; 
Ceaseless  it  flows  till,  round  its  bed, 
The  vales  of  Henniker  are  spread, 
Their  banks  all  set  with  golden  grain, 
Or  stately  trees  whose  vistas  gleam  — 
A  double  forest  —  in  the  stream  ; 
And,  winding  'neath  the  pine-crowned  hill 
That  overhangs  the  village  plain, 
By  sunny  reaches,  broad  and  still, 
It  nears  the  bridge  that  spans  its  tide  — 
The  bridge  whose  arches  low  and  wide 
It  ripples  through  —  and  should  you  lean 
A  moment  there,  no  lovelier  scene 
On  England's  Wye,  or  Scotland's  Tay, 
Would  charm  your  gaze,  a  summer's  day. 


'  CONTOOCOOK  RIVER.  77 

O  of  what  beauty  't  is  the  giver  — 
Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming  river ! 

And  on  it  glides,  by  grove  and  glen, 
Dark  woodlands,  and  the  homes  of  men, 
With  calm  and  meadow,  fall  and  mill ; 
Till,  deep  and  clear,  its  waters  fill 
The  channels  round  that  gem  of  isles 
Sacred  to  captives'  woes  and  wiles, 
And  eager  half,  half  eddying  back, 
Blend  with  the  lordly  Merrimack  ; 
And  Merrimack  whose  tide  is  strong 
Rolls  gently,  with  its  waves  along, 
Monadnock's  stream  that,  coy  and  fair, 
Has  come,  its  larger  life  to  share, 
And  to  the  sea  doth  safe  deliver 
Contoocook's  bright  and  brimming  river  ! 


THE   RESCUE.11 

(ON  THE   MEXICAN   BORDER.) 

Now  to  the  Lord  Almighty  — 

How  wondrous  are  His  ways  1  — 
And  Our  Lady  of  Guadalupe, 

The  Holy  Virgin,  praise ! 
They  pitied  us  in  our  anguish, 

And  safe  through  thousand  foes 
In  the  desert  and  the  wilderness, 

Brought  us  to  this  repose  ; 
And  we  will  love  and  praise  them 

Till  life  itself  shall  close ! 

'T  was  a  festal  day  in  Larna, 

Our  Blessed  Lady's  feast ; 
We  were  up  and  away  to  the  church  in  the  vale 

As  dawn  was  red  in  the  east, 
To  catch  the  swell  of  the  matin  hymn, 

The  first  chant  of  the  priest. 
We  knelt  beside  the  altar 

With  its  pictures  brought  from  Spain  ; 
The  censers  swung,  the  sweet  bells  rung, 

Our  hearts  made  glad  refrain ; 
And  home  we  went  at  evening 

While  the  Angelus  was  tolled, 


THE  RESCUE.  79 

And  the  peaks  of  the  far  Sierra 

Gleamed  in  the  sunset  gold. 
But  just  as  we  neared  the  hainlet, 

Where  the  shadows  deepest  lie, 
From  a  cleft  in  the  woody  hillside 

There  came  an  awful  cry, 
And  lo  !  the  fierce  Apaches 

In  all  their  wild  array 
Burst  from  the  cedar  thicket 

And  bore  us  far  away ! 

Our  Lady  must  have  listened 

To  the  shrieks  that  rent  the  air, 
When  I  saw  my  loved  Juanita 

Seized  by  her  shining  hair, 
And  her  brave  young  brother,  Leon, 

Thrust  with  a  sharp  spear  back  — 
So  the  cougar  springs  on  the  helpless  deer 

In  a  lonely  forest  track  ! 
All  night  we  went  in  silence 

By  stream  and  steep  defile, 
To  halt  at  morn  on  the  lofty  cliffs, 

From  Larna  many  a  mile  ; 
To  halt  while  our  masters  ate  their  fill 

Of  the  flesh  of  the  mountain  bear, 
Of  mescal,  acorns,  cactus  fruits 

Their  prisoners  might  not  share. 
How  dread  they  were  by  light  of  day ! 

Painted  from  waist  to  crown, 
Their  sashes  blazoned  with  the  stars, 

Their  black  locks  streaming  down ; 


80  THE  RESCUE. 

With  charms  of  lightning-riven  twigs, 

And  stones  their  foes  must  shun, 
And,  borne  at  their  belts,  the  sacred  meal 

For  offerings  to  the  sun. 
In  horror  and  despair  we  gazed, 

When,  hush  !  a  bugle  call 
Came  winding,  winding  through  the  air, 

And  up  the  mountain  wall ! 
"  The  saints  above  watch  o'er  us  !  " 

In  Leon's  ear  I  sighed ; 
"  By  this  I  know  in  the  plain  below 

Our  gallant  soldiers  ride !  " 

The  chief  has  caught  the  note  !     His  scouts 

Creep  wary  through  the  grass  ; 
And  stern  with  hate  and  fear  he  sets 

His  braves  to  guard  the  pass  ; 
All  eyes  are  bent  upon  the  plain, 

As  hawks  in  mid-air  hover  ;  — 
We  breathe  a  prayer,  and  noiselessly 

Slip  through  the  dense  pine  cover ! 
And  once  again  that  bugle-call 

Is  borne  upon  the  wind,  — 
Our  Lady's  grace  !  —  and  on  we  speed 

To  leave  the  fiends  behind. 

Silent  as  startled  quail  we  stole 

Beneath  the  kindly  shade, 
Till  we  turned  the  brow  of  the  precipice 

And  gained  a  quiet  glade ;  — 


THE  RESCUE.  81 

What  was  that  rustling  in  the  brake  ? 

Does  the  dire  Apache  follow  ? 
It  was  only  the  partridge  of  the  rock 

Scared  from  her  sylvan  hollow  ;  — 
Then  on  by  crags  where  the  tender  lambs 

Of  the  mountain  sheep  are  hid  ; 
Down  streams  that  dark  with  pool  and  fall 

Descend  the  rocks  amid  ; 
O'er  sunny  slopes  whose  blooms  were  gay 

As  a  garden  bed  in  spring, 
With  birds  of  every  rainbow  hue 

Like  flowers  that  had  taken  wing ;  — 
We  heard  the  whir  of  the  rattlesnake ; 

The  timid  fawn  we  found  ; 
The  stag,  disturbed  in  his  cool  recess, 

Went  by  us  with  a  bound  ; 
The  grizzly  bear  and  the  wildcat  lurked 

In  cave  and  jungle  dim ; 
The  panther,  waiting  for  his  prey, 

Couched  on  the  pendent  limb  ;  — 
I  pressed  the  cross  to  my  beating  heart, 

And  with  many  a  murmured  prayer 
We  passed,  unharmed,  the  serpent's  coil, 

Unharmed,  the  wild  beast's  lair. 
At  twilight,  faint  and  chill  and  bruised, 

And  torn  by  flint  and  thorn, 
On  the  edge  of  the  plain,  in  the  tule  reeds, 

We  sank  to  rest,  forlorn. 
The  vulture  wheeled  above  the  marsh ; 

We  heard  the  gray  wolf's  cry ; 


82  THE  RESCUE. 

But  God  was  merciful  —  we  slept 
Till  the  sun  rose  bright  on  high ; 

And  then,  O  blessed  Virgin  ! 
The  troops  came  riding  by  ! 

They  halt !  we  mount !  —  then  far  we  rode 

Through  grove  and  cailon  gray  ; 
O'er  the  blinding  sands  of  the  weary  waste 

Where  the  tired  streams  sink  away ; 
Till  just  as  the  sunset  splendor 

Was  flooding  plain  and  steep, 
And  the  wind,  like  a  waft  of  paradise, 

Woke  from  its  noonday  sleep  — 
Oh,  never,  never  can  we  forget 

The  joy  of  that  glorious  even  — 
We  saw  the  fort,  with  its  starry  flag, 

Fair  as  the  gate  of  heaven ! 
And  to  the  Lord  Almighty, 

Who  rules  and  guides  our  days, 
And  the  Saints,  and  the  blessed  Virgin, 

We  lift  our  hearts  in  praise  ! 


MERRIMACK  RIVER  AT  ITS  SOURCE. 

O  MERRIMACK,  strong  Merrimack, 

All  other  streams  may  faint  and  lack, 

Exhale  in  clouds  through  dreary  lands 

Or  sink  forlorn  in  desert  sands  ; 

New  Hampshire's  hills  and  island-sea 

Are  sureties  for  thy  constancy  ! 

Pemigewasset  leaps  from  the  mountains 

Where   the   huge    Stone  Face  looms   cold   and 

gray ; 

Winnipesaukee  fills  at  the  fountains 
Ossipee  guards  and  Chocorua  — 
The  sunny  water  that  smiling  lies 
"With  its  isles  like  a  path  to  Paradise ; 
And  where  Kearsarge  uplifts  his  shrine 
They  blend  their  deathless  floods  in  thine. 


MERRIMACK  RIVER  AT    ITS   MOUTH. 

TO-NIGHT  I  saw  the  Merrimack 

Go  broadening,  gleaming  out  to  sea  ;  — 

The  tide  was  low  ;  a  cloudy  rack 

Purple  and  crimson  and  sullen  black 

Drifted  o'er  main  and  lea ; 

And  now  in  shadow  and  now  in  sun, 

But  placid  and  still  as  befitted  one 

Whose    life    would    be    ended    when    day   was 

done,  — 

With  a  breeze  from  the  north  above  it  blowing 
And  the  strength  of  the  hills  in  its  silent  flowing, 
Past  the  pines  of  Newbury  town 
And  the  Salisbury  marshes  wide  and  brown, 
Over  the  bar  the  cliff-born  river 
Lapsed  into  the  sea's  forever ! 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  SAILOR. 

COME  back,  O  magical  evenings 

Of  Decembers  long  ago, 
When  the  north  wind  moaned  at  the  windows, 

Herald  of  drifting  snow  ; 
But,  within,  the  great  logs  glowing 

And  the  chimney's  ruddy  blaze 
Made  all  the  room  like  the  rosy  fall 

Of  summer's  fairest  days  ! 

There,  in  a  joyous  circle,  — 

Five  girls  and  boys  were  we  — 
About  our  grandame's  chair  we  sat 

And  listened  to  tales  of  the  sea. 
For  she  had  come  from  Portsmouth  town, 

And  her  brothers  were  sailors  tall ; 
She  knew  the  lore  of  the  fisher-folk, 

And  every  beach-bird's  call ; 

And  could  tell  us  of  storm,  and  wraith,  and  wreck, 

And  ships  becalmed  on  the  line, 
And  sunny  lands  whence  the  captains  brought 

Olives  and  figs  and  wine,  — 
Till  our  eyes  were  wide  with  wonder, 

And  Robert  would  softly  say, 


86  THE  PORTSMOUTH  SAILOR. 

"  Now  the  story  of  our  great-uncle 
The  pirates  carried  away." 

"  Yes,"  she  would  sigh,  "  it  was  William, 

The  last  of  my  brothers  three  ; 
Slender  and  straight  as  a  light-house  tower, 

And  strong  and  brave  was  he. 
Our  mother  wept  when  he  sang  of  the  waves, 

And  to  hold  him  close  was  fain ; 
But  he  was  a  sailor  born,  and  bent 

To  rove  the  boundless  main. 

"  So  he  shipped  on  a  gallant  vessel, 

The  "  Cadiz,"  fleet  and  stout, 
And  the  gray  March  day  she  bore  away 

The  wildest  winds  were  out. 
But  he  laughed  at  the  gale  and  the  gloomy  sky 

As  he  saw  her  sails  unfurl, 
And  said  he  would  bring  me  corals  bright 

And  our  mother  a  brooch  of  pearl. 

"  Dear  noble  lad  !  I  can  see  him  yet 

As  he  stood  at  the  mainmast's  side, 
When  the  "  Cadiz  "  down  the  river  went 

With  the  wind  and  the  ebbing  tide. 
He  waved  his  cap  as  she  passed  the  forts 

And  turned  to  her  distant  shore  ;  — 
Alas  !  nor  lad  nor  gallant  prow 

Came  up  the  river  more  ! 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  SAILOR.  87 

"  Ah,  well ;  —  with  loving,  lonely  hearts 

We  followed  his  foaming  track, 
Looking  aye  for  the  golden  morn 

That  should  bring  our  darling  back ;  — 
When  with  winter  we  heard  the  awful  news, 

From  a  bark  in  Boston  bay, 
That  the  Algerines  had  the  "  Cadiz  "  seized, 

And  her  crew  were  slaves  of  the  Dey ! 

"  '  But  he  lives,'  said  his  stricken  mother  ; 

*  He  lives,  and  may  come  in  peace  !  ' 
And  as  one  who  would  not  be  denied 

She  prayed  for  his  release ; 
While  slow  the  seasons  went  their  round 

Till  thrice  't  was  March  and  May, 
And  thrice  the  ships  from  the  Indian  isles 

In  the  harbor  anchored  lay. 

"  Oh,  happy  for  her  she  could  not  see 

Her  boy  on  the  burning  plain, 
Scorn  of  the  caravan  southward  bound 

For  a  Moorish  master's  gain  ;  — 
Through  torrid  noons  and  chilly  nights 

TiU  that  day  of  horror  fell 
When  a  cloud  came  rolling  up  from  the  waste 

With  a  billow's  surge  and  swell, 
And  the  dread  simoom  swept  over  their  path 

A  league  from  Tishlah's  well ! 

"  In  flaming  gusts,  all  fitfully, 
The  blast  of  the  desert  blew ; 


88  THE  PORTSMOUTH  SAILOE, 

And  the  air  grew  heavy  and  hot  and  still 

As  the  darkness  closer  drew. 
They  fled  before  its  scorching  breath ; 

They  crouched  in  trembling  bands ; 
But  it  shut  them  in  like  a  pall  of  fire, 

Outspread  by  demon  hands  ;  — 
And,  when  it  passed,  that  kneeling  host 

Lay  lifeless  on  the  sands ! 

"  And  hark  !  That  eve  his  mother  heardr 

By  the  door,  the  whip-poor-will's  cry ; 
And,  at  midnight,  the  death-watch  beating 

In  the  wall,  her  pillow  by  ; 
And  the  howl  of  the  dog  her  sailor  lad 

Left  to  her  faithful  care, 
As  the  wan  moon  sank  before  the  dawn. 

Ring  through  the  startled  air ; 
And  dreamed  the  cherry-tree's  withered  bough 

Was  white  with  its  early  bloom  ;  — 
Then  she  knew  in  that  drear  and  cruel  land 

Her  boy  had  found  his  tomb  I 

"  Next  moon  a  horde  on  plunder  bent, 

Roaming  the  desert's  heart, 
Saw  the  lone  dead,  and  their  treasures  bore 

To  far  Timbuctoo's  mart ; 
And  told,  in  many  an  Arab  tent, 

Of  the  fair-haired  Christian  slave 
Who  nearest  of  all  to  the  well  had  pressed, 

When  the  fierce  wind  heaped  his  grave. 


THE  PORTSMOUTH  SAILOR.  89 

"  Nay,  children  !     Do  not  grieve  so ! 

The  angels  could  look  down 
On  still  Sahara's  burning  plain, 

As  on  our  Portsmouth  town ; 
And  he  and  his  gentle  mother, 

Denied  one  burial  sod, 
This  many  a  year  have  together  dwelt 

<  In  the  Paradise  of  God!"' 

Come  back,  O  magical  evenings 

Of  Decembers  long  ago,  — 
When  the  north  wind  moaned  at  the  windows, 

Herald  of  drifting  snow ; 
But,  warm  in  the  rosy  firelight, 

We  sat  at  our  grandame's  knee, 
And  listened  with  love  and  wonder 

To  stories  of  over  sea ! 


HORACE  GREELEY. 

As  if  in  lone  Franconia  one  had  said, 

"  Alas  !  the  glorious  monarch  of  the  hills, 

Mount  Washington,  is  fallen  to  the  vale ! 

The  direful  echo  all  the  silence  fills ; 

The  winds  sweep   down   the   gorge  with   bitter 

wail; 

The  lesser  heights  rise  trembling  and  dismayed, 
And  the  fond  sun  goes,  clouded,  to  the  west ;  "  — 
So  to  the  street,  the  fireside,  came  the  cry, 
"  Our  King  of  Men,  our  boldest,  gentlest  heart, 
He  whose  pure  front  was  nearest  to  the  sky, 
Whose  feet  stood  firmest  on  Eternal  Right ; 
With  his  swift  sympathies  and  giant  might 
That  sealed  him  for  the  martyr's,  warrior's  part, 
And  led,  through  loss,  to  nobler  victory  — 
Lies  low,  to-day,  in  death's  unchallenged  rest !  " 

How  we  entombed  him !     Not  imperial  Rome 
Gave  her  dead  Caesars  sepulture  so  grand, 
Though   gems   and   purple   on   the    pyre   were 

flung ! 

His  tender  requiem  hushed  the  clamorous  land ; 
And  thus,  by  power  lamented,  poet  sung, 


HORACE  GEEELEY.  91 

Through  stricken,  reverent  crowds  we  bore  him 

home 
When  winter  skies  were  fair  and  winds  were 

still! 
And   for  his  fame,  —  while  oceans  guard  our 

shores 

And  mountains  midway  lift  their  peaks  of  snow 
To  the  clear  azure  where  the  eagle  soars ; 
While   peace   is   sweet,  and    the   world   yearns 

again 

To  hear  the  angel-strain,  "  Good  will  to  men ;  " 
While  toil  brings  honor,  virtue  vice  deplores, 
And  liberty  is  precious,  — it  shall  grow, 
And  the  great  future  with  his  spirit  fill. 
Nov.  29, 1872. 


Still  will  the  Christmas  bells  be  sweet 

Amid  December's  gloom  ; 
The  Easter  lilies,  fair  and  fleet, 

Bring  Eden  with  their  bloom ; 
And  Advent,  Resurrection,  shine 
Through  all  the  years,  supreme,  divine. 


THE   QUEEN  OF  THE   YEAR. 

WHEN  suns  are  low,  and  nights  are  long, 

And  winds  bring  wild  alarms, 
Through  the  darkness  comes  the  queen  of  the 
year 

In  all  her  peerless  charms,  — 
December,  fair  and  holly-crowned, 

With  the  Christ-child  in  her  arms. 

The  maiden  months  are  a  stately  train  — 

Veiled  in  the  spotless  snow, 
Or  decked  with  the  bloom  of  Paradise 

What  time  the  roses  blow, 
Or  wreathed  with  the  vine  and  the  yellow  wheat 

When  the  noons  of  harvest  glow. 

But  O  the  joy  of  the  rolling  year, 

The  queen  with  peerless  charms, 
Is  she  who  comes  through  the  waning  light 

To  keep  the  world  from  harms,  — 
December,  fair  and  holly-crowned, 

With  the  Christ-child  in  her  arms. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  BETHLEHEM. 

THE  Christ-thorn  rustles  in  the  hedge, 

The  chill  wind  sighs  by  Kedron's  edge  — 

The  snow-wind  blown  from  Lebanon ; 

And  though,  o'er  Moab's  mountain  wall, 

The  stars  in  orient  splendor  climb 

As  on  that  rarest  night  of  time 

When  Jesus  for  the  world  was  won, 

Yet  never  Bethlehem's  height  or  vale, 

Though  shepherds  watch  till  stars  grow  pale  — 

Nay,  till  the  latest  evening  fall  — 

Will  see  an  angel's  radiant  flight 

Burn  through  the  splendor  of  the  night, 

Or  hear  that  seraph-song  again, 

"  On  earth  be  peace,  good  will  toward  men  !  " 

Only  the  Christ-thorn  in  the  hedge, 

The  chill  wind's  sigh  by  Kedron's  edge  — 

The  snow-wind  blown  from  Lebanon. 

White,  through  the  gloom,  the  convent  towers, 

Where  tearful  pilgrims  count  the  hours 

With  Aves  until  midnight's  chime 

Shall  usher  in  the  day  sublime, 

Thronging  the  nave  of  Helena ; 

Or  seek  the  crypt,  their  holiest  quest, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  BETHLEHEM.      97 

To  read  upon  its  stones  imprest, 
"  Hie  Jesus  Christus  natus  est," 
And  kneel  to  kiss  the  pavement  star ! 
The  silver  lamps  swing  to  and  fro  ; 
The  monks  in  long  procession  go, 
Slow-winding  round  the  altar  stair  ; 
But  crypt  and  shrine  are  mute  and  bare ; 
The  Christ  is  gone,  the  glory  fled 
That  shone  above  his  manger-bed, 
And  the  pale  monks  but  mourn  him  there. 
Without,  beside  the  guarded  gate  — 
The  gate  that  fronts  the  rising  sun  — 
No  lordly  emirs  reverent  wait 
With  gifts  to  hail  the  new-born  King ; 
No  shepherds  from  their  pastures  run 
To  see  the  babe  the  angels  sing, 
But  all  is  hushed  and  desolate ; 
Only  the  Christ-thorn  in  the  hedge, 
The  chill  wind's  sigh  by  Kedron's  edge  — 
The  snow-wind  blown  from  Lebanon. 

And  are  we  then  forgot,  bereft, 
Because  no  host  the  sky  has  cleft  ? 
No  glory  shone  above  the  plain 
Where  burst  the  high,  seraphic  strain  ? 
No  wise  men  journeyed  o'er  the  wold 
With  myrrh  and  frankincense  and  gold 
To  greet  the  Babe  of  Paradise 
In  the  low  cradle  where  he  lies  ? 
Nay  !  what  do  we  with  song  or  gem  ? 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  AT  BETHLEHEM. 

Since  that  immortal  night  went  by 
The  whole  earth  is  our  Bethlehem  ; 
Hosannas  ring  from  every  sky  ! 
In  forest  glade,  on  billowy  main, 
Judea's  height,  Nebraska's  plain,  — 
By  any  shore  or  mount  or  sea 
Where  faith  and  hope  and  love  abide 
And  self  is  lost  in  sacrifice, 
There  the  celestial  gates  swing  wide 
And  heaven  descends  to  human  eyes ; 
There  Christ  the  Lord  is  born  again ; 
There  is  his  new  Nativity  ! 

Who  sorrows  for  a  vanished  dawn 
When  east  and  west  proclaim  the  sun  ? 
Welcome  be  Bethlehem's  silent  lawn, 
Its  songless  skies  and  shadows  dun, 
The  Christ-thorn  rustling  in  the  hedge, 
The  chill  wind's  sigh  by  Kedron's  edge  — 
The  snow-wind  blown  from  Lebanon  ! 


THE  WINTER  SOLSTICE. 

WHAT  is  the  time  of  the  year  ? 

What  is  the  hour  of  the  day  ? 
Later  at  morn  and  sooner  at  eve 

The  pale  stars  shine  alway  ; 
And  the  low  sun  drifts  to  the  south, 

So  wan  that  at  height  of  noon 
We  hardly  know  if  the  dun  light 
Be  the  parting  glow  of  the  sunlight 

Or  the  gleam  of  the  risen  moon  ; 
And  ever  through  shade  and  fleeting  shine 

We  hear  the  bleak  wind's  rune  : 
"  Alas,  alas  for  the  summer  fled, 

And  earth  and  sky  so  gray  !  " 

O  for  the  odor  of  violets 

That  sprang  with  the  April  rain, 
And  the  breath  of  the  rose  and  the  lily 

That  long  in  their  graves  have  lain  ! 
And  O  for  the  orchard's  wealth  of  bloom, 

And  the  wheat-field's  waving  gold  !  — 
My  heart  is  faint  for  the  glory 
Of  harvest  moons,  and  the  story 

The  balmy  zephyrs  told  ! 


100  THE  WIN  TEE  SOLSTICE. 

How  shall  we  live  now  earth  is  bare, 

And  the  sun  himself  is  cold, 
And  the  blast  of  the  bitter  north  goes  by 

Bemoaning  wood  and  plain  ? 

Wait !  there  's  a  thrill  in  the  air  ! 

See  !  in  the  south  forlorn 
The  great  sun  stays  his  wandering  beams, 

And  a  new  year  finds  its  morn  ! 
The  stars  are  a-watch,  and  the  moon ; 

The  wailing  wind  drops  low  ; 
There  's  a  murmur  of  daffodil  meadows, 
And  of  songs  in  the  sylvan  shadows, 

And  banks  where  the  violets  blow  ! 
Let  fires  be  lit,  let  shrines  be  decked, 

And  joy  be  lord  of  woe  !  — 
The  sun,  victorious,  mounts  the  sky, 

And  God  for  earth  is  born  ! 


WAITING  FOR  EASTER. 

HARK  !  the  clarion  March  wind !  its  wild,  defiant 

greeting 

Rouses  moor  and  forest,  rouses  hill  and  sea  — 
'Stormy  as  the  bugles  that  call  when  hosts   are 

meeting, 

Rich  as  notes  from  Alp  to  Alp  when   horns 
make  jubilee  ! 

Down  the  darkening  sunset  a  single  star  is  shin 
ing* 
Lost   as   clouds  drift  landward  off  the  ocean 

dim  ; 

Dreary  rise  the  mountains,  against  the  gray  re 
clining, 

"Wan  as  ghosts  that  silent  steal  where  swells 
a  funeral  hymn. 

Hark !  the  stately  chorus !  away,  my  soul's  de 
jection  ! 
Songs  of  summer  warble  through  the  glorious 

strain ; 

Every  ringing  cadence  is  a  blast  of  resurrection, 
Bold  as  blown  by  Israfil  across  some  burial 
plain  ! 


102  WAITING  FOE  EASTEE. 

Sturdier  stand  the  maples  as  past  them  rolls  its 

paean  ; 
Thrill  with  joy  the  elm- boughs,  swaying  light 

and  free ; 
Back  to  dell  and  garden  come  dreams  of  scents 

Sabean, 

Back  to  brook  and  river -tide  the  splendors  of 
the  sea. 

"  Welcome  !  "  sigh  the  leaf-buds,  though  chill  its* 

rough  caressing ; 

Hid  in  snow  the  crocus  lifts  a  heart  of  gold ; 
May-flower  and  anemone  know  well  its  wrath  is 

blessing, 

Flushing  faint  for  happiness  in  woodland  moss 
and  mould. 

Hark  !  the  clarion  March  wind !  its  wild,  defiant 

greeting 

Rouses  moor  and  forest,  rouses  hill  and  sea  — 
Stormy  as   the   bugles  that   call  when   hosts   are 

meeting, 

Rich  as  notes  from  Alp  to  Alp  when  horns 
make  jubilee ! 

Wind   of   life !    sweep   onward ;    bring   a  world 

diviner  ;  — 

Laughing  meadows,  mountains  soft  in  purple 
air; 


WAITING  FOB  EASTER.  103 

Rosier  dawns  and  twilights,  suns  and  moons  be- 

nigner, 

All  that  heaven  and  earth  can  give  to  fashion 
April  fair. 

Nay,  bring  nobler  courage  ;  faith  that  never  fal 
ters; 
Bear   our   griefs   with   winter    o'er    the   seas 

away ;  — 
So  in  hope  and  gladness,  beside  our  hearths  and 

altars, 

We  will  wait  the  coming  of  the  blessed  Easter 
Day! 


EASTER  MORNING. 

THE  fasts  are  done ;  the  Aves  said ; 

The  moon  has  filled  her  horn ; 
And  in  the  solemn  night  I  watch 

Before  the  Easter  morn. 
So  pure,  so  still  the  starry  heaven, 

So  hushed  the  brooding  air, 
I  could  hear  the  sweep  of  an  angel's  wings 

If  one  should  earthward  fare  ;  — 
Great  Michael  with  his  flaming  sword, 
Sandalphon  bearing  to  the  Lord 

Some  heart-cry  of  despair. 

But  since  the  sunset  glow  went  out 

And  the  fitful  wind  grew  still, 
No  sound  has  stirred  the  waiting  night, 

No  flash  lit  sky  or  hill. 
Gabriel  nor  Uriel  speeds  to  tell 

Some  heavenly  boon  is  won ; 
To  other  spheres  in  the  airy  deep 

Their  shining  pathways  run, 
And,  left  of  angel  ministries, 
Alone  upon  celestial  seas 

Earth  circles  round  the  sun. 


EASTER  MORNING.  105 

Yet  joy  is  here,  for  woods  and  fields 

Thrill  to  the  kiss  of  spring ; 
The  brooks  go  laughing  down  the  glens, 

The  birds  for  gladness  sing ; 
In  forest  dells  the  wind  flowers  wave  ; 

The  earliest  violets  blow  ; 
And  soon  will  come  the  carnival 

Of  orchard  flush  and  snow, 
When  air  is  balm  and  blossoms  fall 
As  if  the  blessed  angels  all 

Brought  Paradise  below. 

Alas  for  April  song  and  bloom ! 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  tears 
As  I  think  of  the  dead  no  spring  will  wake 

Through  all  the  circling  years  ! 
With  broken  hearts  we  laid  them  down  ; 

We  followed  them  with  prayers  ; 
And  warm  and  true  for  aye  we  keep 

Our  love  and  trust  with  theirs  ; 
But  silence  shrouds  them  evermore, 
Nor  sun,  nor  star,  nor  sea,  nor  shore, 

A  pitying  message  bears. 

O  for  a  rift  in  the  arching  heaven ! 

A  gleam  of  the  jasper  walls  ! 
A  single  note  of  the  holy  hymn 

That  ceaseless  swells  and  falls ! 
Their  graves  are  cold,  and  they  never  come 

When  the  evening  sun  is  low, 


106  EASTER  MORNING. 

Nor  sit  with  us  one  happy  hour 

In  the  firelight's  fading  glow ;  — 
And  I  dream  till  my  eyes  are  dim  with  tears, 
And  all  my  life  o'erpowered  with  fears, 
As  the  night-watches  go. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  west  wind  blowing  free, 

Swift  herald  of  the  dawn  ; 
Faint  murmurs  answer  from  the  wood ; 

The  night  will  soon  be  gone. 
Sad  soul !  shall  day  from  darkness  rise, 

And  the  rose  unfold  from  the  sod, 
And  the  bare,  brown  hills  grow  beautiful 

When  May  their  slopes  has  trod,  — 
While  they  for  whom  the  sun  shone  fair, 
And  rose  and  bird  rejoiced  the  air, 

Sleep  on,  forgot  of  God  ? 

Depart,  drear  visions  of  the  night ! 

We  are  the  dead,  not  they  ! 
High  in  God's  mansions  of  delight 

They  greet  immortal  day. 
Look  out !     The  sky  is  flushed  with  gold 

In  glad,  celestial  warning  ; 
The  cloudy  bars  are  backward  rolled, 

And,  gloom  and  shadows  scorning, 
O'er  grief  and  death  victorious, 
Above  all  glories  glorious, 

Comes  up  the  Easter  morning ! 


EASTER   BELLS. 

LENT  was  dreary  and  late  that  year  ; 

April  to  May  was  going  ; 
But  the  loitering  moon  refused  to  round, 

And  the  wild  south-east  was  blowing. 

Day  by  day,  from  my  window  high, 

I  watched,  a  lonely  warder, 
For  a  building  bird  in  the  garden-trees 

Or  a  flower  in  the  sheltered  border. 

But  I  only  heard  the  chilly  rain 

On  the  roof  of  my  chamber  beating, 

Or  the  wild  sea-wind  to  the  tossing  boughs 
Its  wail  of  wreck  repeating  ; 

And  said,  "  Ah  me  !  't  is  a  weary  world 
This  cheerless  April  weather ; 

The  beautiful  things  will  droop  and  die, 
Blossom  and  bird  together." 

At  last  the  storm  was  spent.    I  slept, 
Lulled  by  the  tired  wind's  sighing,  — 

To  wake  at  morn  with  the  sunshine  full 
On  floor  and  garden  lying ; 


108  EASTER  BELLS. 

And  lo  !  the  hyacinth  buds  were  blown  ; 

A  robin  was  blithely  singing  ; 
The  cherry-blooms  by  the  wall  were  white, 

And  the  Easter  bells  were  ringing ! 

It  was  long  ago,  but  the  memory  lives  ; 

And  in  all  life's  Lenten  sorrows, 
When  tempests  of  grief  and  trouble  beat 

And  I  dread  the  dark  to-morrows, 

I  think  of  the  garden  after  the  rain  ; 

And  hope  to  my  heart  comes  singing, 
"  At  morn  the  cherry-blooms  will  be  white, 

And  the  Easter  bells  be  ringing  !  " 


To  the  minstrel  said  the  king, 

"  Sing  you  mournful  songs  or  glad  ?  " 
"  Nay,  sire,  't  is  of  life  I  sing  ; 

Gay  to-day,  to-morrow  sad." 

"  Minstrel,  tell  us  not  of  tears  ; 

Dulcet  notes  to  joy  belong." 
"  Nay,  sire,  he  who  sorrow  fears 

Will  not  hear  the  sweetest  song." 


HEAVEN,  O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 

Now  summer  finds  her  perfect  prime  ; 

Sweet  blows  the  wind  from  western  calms ; 
On  every  bower  red  roses  climb  ; 

The  meadows  sleep  in  mingled  balms. 
Nor  stream,  nor  bank  the  wayside  by, 

But  lilies  float  and  daisies  throng ; 
Nor  space  of  blue  and  sunny  sky 

That  is  not  cleft  with  soaring  song. 
O  flowery  morns,  O  tuneful  eves, 

Fly  swift !  my  soul  ye  cannot  fill ! 
Bring  the  ripe  fruit,  the  garnered  sheaves, 

The  drifting  snows  on  plain  and  hill. 
Alike,  to  me,  fall  frosts  and  dews  ; 
But,  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

Warm  hands,  to-day,  are  clasped  in  mine  ; 

Fond  hearts  my  mirth  or  mourning  share  ; 
And,  over  hope's  horizon  line, 

The  future  dawns,  serenely  fair. 
Yet  still,  though  fervent  vow  denies, 

I  know  the  rapture  will  not  stay ; 
Some  wind  of  grief  or  doubt  will  rise 

And  turn  my  rosy  sky  to  gray. 


112    HEAVEN,  O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE. 

I  shall  awake,  in  rainy  morn, 

To  find  my  hearth  left  lone  and  drear  ; 
Thus,  half  in  sadness,  half  in  scorn, 

I  let  my  life  burn  on  as  clear 
Though  friends  grow  cold  or  fond  love  woos  ; 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

In  golden  hours  the  angel  Peace 

Comes  down  and  broods  me  with  her  wings ; 
I  gain  from  sorrow  sweet  release  ; 

I  mate  me  with  divinest  things  ; 
"When  shapes  of  guilt  and  gloom  arise 

And  far  the  radiant  angel  flees,  — 
My  song  is  lost  in  mournful  sighs, 

My  wine  of  triumph  left  but  lees  ; 
In  vain  for  me  her  pinions  shine, 

And  pure,  celestial  days  begin  ; 
Earth's  passion-flowers  I  still  must  twine, 

Nor  braid  one  beauteous  lily  in. 
Ah !  is  it  good  or  ill  I  choose  ? 
But  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  cannot  lose  ! 

So  wait  I.     Every  day  that  dies 

With  flush  and  fragrance  born  of  June, 
I  know  shall  more  resplendent  rise 

Where  summer  needs  nor  sun  nor  moon. 
And  every  bud,  on  love's  low  tree, 

Whose  mocking  crimson  flames  and  falls, 
In  fullest  flower  I  yet  shall  see 

High-blooming  by  the  jasper  walls. 


HEAVEN,  O  LORD,  I  CANNOT  LOSE.    113 

Nay,  every  sin  that  dims  my  days, 
And  wild  regrets  that  veil  the  sun, 

Shall  fade  before  those  dazzling  rays, 
And  my  long  glory  be  begun  ! 

Let  the  years  come  to  bless  or  bruise ; 

Thy  Heaven,  O  Lord,  I  shall  not  lose  ! 


BORN   OF    THE   SPIRIT. 

SHE  called  me  a  moment  before, 
And  smiled,  as  I  entered  the  door, 

In  her  gentle  way  ; 

A  sigh  ...  a  droop  of  the  head  .  .  . 
And  something  forever  had  fled, 

And  she  was  but  clay ! 

Her  hand  was  yet  clasped  in  mine ; 
And  bright,  in  the  golden  shine, 

Her  brown  hair  fell ; 
But  the  marble  Psyche  there 
As  soon  would  have  heard  my  prayer, 

My  wild  farewell. 

'Twas  the  hush  of  an  autumn  noon, 
So  clear  that  the  waning  moon 

Was  a  ghost  in  the  sky ; 
Not  a  leaf  on  the  lindens  swayed, 
And  even  the  brook  in  the  glade 

Ran,  noiseless,  by. 

What  had  gone  from  the  room, 
Leaving  the  sunshine  gloom, 
The  soft  air  chill  ? 


BORN  OF  THE  SPIRIT.  115 

If  the  tiniest  bird  had  flown, 
Its  flight  had  a  shadow  thrown 
On  lawn  and  rill ; 

But  neither  a  sound  nor  sight 
Disturbed  the  calm  or  the  light 

Of  the  noontide  air ; 
Yet  the  friend  I  loved  was  as  far 
As  a  ghostly  moon  or  star, 

From  my  call  and  care. 

Dead,  with  her  hand  in  mine ! 
Dead,  in  the  golden  shine 

Of  the  autumn  day ! 
Dead,  and  no  note  in  heaven, 
Nor  a  gleam  of  white  wings  given, 

To  mark  her  way  ! 

And  my  heart  went  up  in  the  cry, 
"  How  did  the  swift  soul  fly  ? 

What  life  inherit  ?  "  .  .  . 
Then  the  wind  blew  sweet  and  was  gone  .  .  . 
And  a  voice  said,  "  So  is  one 

Born  of  the  Spirit." 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS. 

SEE  how  the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  fall 
Athwart  the  path  where  young  leaves  take  the 

sun; 

Blent  in  a  wavering,  tangled  maze  they  run, 
As  blows  the  wind  across  the  orchard  wall, 
So  fleet,  so  faint,  that  careless  play  seems  all,  — 
Yet  perfect  law  imprints  them,  every  one, 
And  tides  might  sooner  seek  the  moon  to  shun 
Than  leaves  this  instant  limning  to  forestall. 
Thus  do  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the  soul 
Unerringly  portray  its  good  and  ill ; 
Each  aim,  each  longing,  fraught  with  joy  or  dole, 
Traces  an  image  on  life's  pathway  still, 
And  the  swift  pictures  are  our  judgment-scroll 
Whether  with  shine  or  shade  the  hours  we  fill. 


THE  CRY  OF  JOB.  117 

THE   CRY  OF  JOB. 

"  But  I  will  maintain  mine  own  ways  before  him." 

LORD,  Thou  knowest  my  heart  is  pure ; 

Lo,  I  open  it  all  to  Thee ; 
The  light  of  thine  eyes  I  dare  endure ; 

Come  with  thy  judgment  day  to  me  ! 
Hour  nor  moment  I  will  not  hide 

Of  all  I  have  lived  beneath  the  sun  ; 
What  to  me  if  the  world  deride  ? 

Into  thy  face  I  look  alone. 

For  I  am  thine  —  thy  very  own ; 

Thou  hast  fashioned  me,  body  and  soul ; 
Hither  I  sped  by  thy  strong  winds  blown, 

And  hence  must  fly  to  thy  farthest  goal. 
Is  the  wave  appalled  by  the  mighty  sea  ? 

Does  the  sunbeam  dread  the  noontide  blaze  ? 
And  shall  I,  who  live  and  move  in  Thee, 

Tremble  to  prove  thy  blame  or  praise  ? 

"What  is  my  life  ?  alas,  alas, 

Fain  I  would  fathom  it,  fain  forget ! 
But  well  Thou  knowest  I  could  not  pass 

The  bounds  which  Thou,  thyself,  didst  set ; 
And  that  ever,  through  wrong  and  wreck  and  pain, 

I  have  striven  to  hold  my  course  to  Thee ; 
Shall  mine  be  the  anguish  and  not  the  gain  ?  — 

Come  with  thy  judgment  day  to  me ! 


DAILY  DYING 

NOT  in  a  moment  drops  the  rose 

That  in  a  summer  garden  grows  ;  — 

A  robin  sings  beneath  the  tree 

A  twilight  song  of  ecstasy, 
And  the  red,  red  leaves  at  its  fragrant  heart, 

Trembling  so  in  delicious  pain, 
Fall  to  the  ground  with  a  sudden  start 

And  the  grass  is  gay  with  a  crimson  stain  ; 

And  a  honey-bee,  out  of  the  fields  of  clover, 

Heavily  flying  the  garden  over, 

Brushes  the  stem  as  it  passes  by, 

And  others  fall  where  the  heart-leaves  lie  ; 

And  air  and  dew,  ere  night  is  done, 

Have  stolen  the  petals,  every  one. 

And  sunset's  gleam  of  gorgeous  dyes 
Ne'er  with  one  shadow  fades  away, 

But  slowly  o'er  those  radiant  skies 

There  steals  the  evening  cold  and  gray  ; 
And  amber  and  violet  linger  still 
When  stars  are  over  the  eastern  hill. 

The  maple  does  not  shed  its  leaves 
In  one  tempestuous  scarlet  rain, 


DAILY  DYING.  119 

But  softly,  when  the  south  wind  grieves, 
Slow-wandering  over  wood  and  plain, 
One  by  one  they  waver  through 
The  Indian's  summer's  hazy  blue, 
And  drop,  at  last,  on  the  forest  mould, 
Coral  and  ruby  and  burning  gold. 

Our  death  is  gradual,  like  to  these  ; 

We  die  with  every  waning  day  ; 
There  is  no  waft  of  sorrow's  breeze 

But  bears  some  heart-leaf  slow  away ! 

Up  and  on  to  the  vast  To  Be 

Our  life  is  going  eternally  ! 
Less  of  earth  than  we  had  last  year 

Throbs  in  your  veins  and  throbs  in  mine, 
But  the  way  to  heaven  is  growing  clear, 

While  the  gates  of  the  city  fairer  shine  ; 

And  the  day  that  our  latest  treasures  flee, 

Wide  they  will  open  for  you  and  me ! 


O  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

I  SIT  beside  the  sea  this  autumn  day, 

When  sky  and  tide  are  ravishingly  blue, 
And  melt  into  each  other.     Down  the  bay 
The  stately  ships  drift  by  so  still  and  slow, 
That,  on  the  horizon's  verge,  I  scarce  may  know 
Which  be  the  sails  along  the  wave  that  glow, 
And  which  the   clouds   that   float   the   azure 
through. 

From  beds  of  goldenrod  and  asters  steal 

The  south  winds,  soft  as  any  breath  of  May  ; 
High  in  the  sunny  air  the  white  gulls  wheel, 
As  noiseless  as  the  cloud  they  poise  below ; 
And,  in  the  hush,  the  light  waves  corne  and  go 
As  if  a  spell  entranced  them,  and  their  flow 
Echoed  the  beat  of  oceans  far  away. 

O  Loved  and  Lost !  can  you  not  stoop  to  me 
This  perfect  morn,  when  heaven  and  earth  are 

one  ? 

The  south  winds  breathe  of  you  ;  I  only  see 
(Alas,  the  vision  sweet  can  naught  avail !) 
Your  image  in  the  cloud,  the  wave,  the  sail ; 
And  heed  nor  calm,  nor  storm,  nor  bliss,  nor  bale. 
Remembering  you  have  gone  beyond  the  sun. 


O  LOVED  AND  LOST.  121 

One  look  into  your  eyes  ;  one  clasp  of  hands ; 

One  murmured  "  Lo,  I  love  you  as  before  ;  " 
And  I  would  give  you  to  your  viewless  lands, 
And  wait  my  time  with  never  tear  nor  sigh ;  — 
But  not  a  whisper  comes  from  earth  or  sky, 
And  the  sole  answer  to  my  yearning  cry 

Is  the  faint  wash  of  waves  along  the  shore. 

Lord !  dost  Thou  see  how  dread  a  thing  is  death 

When  silence  such  as  this  is  all  it  leaves  ?  — 
To  watch  in  agony  the  parting  breath 
Till  the  fond  eyes  are  closed,  the  dear  voice  still ; 
And  know  that  not  the  wildest  prayer  can  thrill 
Thee  to  awake  them,  but  our  grief  must  fill 
Alike  the  rosy  morns,  the  rainy  eves. 

Ah  !  Thou  dost  see  ;  and  not  a  pang  is  vain  !  — 

Some  joy  of  every  anguish  must  be  born ; 
Else  this  one  planet's  weight  of  loss  and  pain 
Would  stay  the  stars  in  sympathetic  woe, 
And  make  the  suns  move  pale,  and  cold,  and 

slow, 

Till  all  was  black  and  void,  thy  throne  below, 
And   night   shut   down    without   a   gleam   of 
morn. 

But  mark !  the  sun  goes  radiant  to  his  goal 
While  winds  make   music  o'er   the  laughing 

sea; 
And,  with  his  set,  the  starry  host  will  roll 


122  O  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

Celestial  splendors  over  mead  and  main  ; 
Lord  !  can  thy  worlds   be  glad,   and  death  en 
chain  ? 

Nay  !  't  is  but  crowning  for  immortal  reign 
In  the  pure  realm  where  all  abide  with  thee. 

What  star  has  seen  the  sun  at  cloudless  noon  ? 

What  chrysalis  knows  aught   of   wings   that 

soar  ?  — 

O  blessed  souls  !  how  can  I  hope  the  boon 
Of  look  or  word  from  you,  the  glorified, 
Until  for  me  the  shining  gates  swing  wide  ?  — 
Welcome  the  day  when  the  great  deeps  divide, 

And  we  are  one  in  life  for  evermore  ! 


THE   TRYST   OF   SOULS. 

Low  hung  the  moon,  the  wind  was  still, 
As  slow  I  climbed  the  midnight  hill, 
And  passed  the  ruined  garden  o'er, 
And  gained  the  barred  and  silent  door ; 
Sad- welcomed  by  the  lingering  rose 
That,  startled,  shed  its  waning  snows. 

The  bolt  flew  back  with  sudden  clang  ; 

I  entered  ;  wall  and  rafter  rang  ; 

Down  dropped  the  moon,  and,  clear  and  high, 

September's  wind  went  wailing  by  ;  — 

"  Alas  !  "  I  sighed,  "  the  love  and  glow 

That  lit  this  mansion,  long  ago !  " 

And  groping  up  the  threshold  stair, 
And  past  the  chambers  cold  and  bare, 
I  sought  the  room  where  glad,  of  yore, 
We  sat  the  blazing  fire  before, 
And  heard  the  tales  a  father  told, 
Till  glow  was  gone  and  evening  old. 

Where  were  those  rosy  children  three  ? 
The  boy  beneath  the  moaning  sea ; 
Blithe  Margaret,  down  where  violets  hide, 
Slept,  tranquil,  by  that  father's  side ; 


124  THE  TRYST  OF  SOULS. 

And  I,  alone,  a  pilgrim  still, 

Was  left  to  climb  the  midnight  hill. 

My  hand  was  on  the  latch,  when  lo ! 
'T  was  lifted  from  within  !  and  slow, 
Dawned  on  my  heart  its  dearest  dream  ;  - 
Within  I  saw  the  wood-fire  gleam, 
And  smiling,  waiting,  beckoning  there, 
My  father,  in  his  ancient  chair  ! 

0  the  long  rapture,  perfect  rest, 

As  close  he  clasped  me  to  his  breast ! 
Put  back  the  braids  the  wind  had  blown  ; 
Said  I  had  like  my  mother  grown ; 
And  bade  me  tell  him,  frank  as  she, 
All  the  lone  years  had  brought  to  me. 

AVhat  cared  I  then  ?  —  his  hand  in  mine, 

1  tasted  joy  serene,  divine, 

And  saw  my  griefs  unfolding  fair 
As  flowers  in  June's  enchanted  air. 
So  warm  his  words,  so  soft  his  sighs, 
Such  tender  lovelight  in  his  eyes, 

"  0  Death  !  "  I  cried,  "  if  these  be  thine, 
For  me  the  asphodels  entwine  ! 
Fold  me  within  thy  blessed  calm  ; 
Leave  on  my  lips  thy  kiss  of  balm ; 
And  let  me  slumber,  pillowed  low, 
With  Margaret  where  the  violets  blow  !  " 


THE  TRYST  OF  SOULS.  125 

And  still  we  talked.     O'er  cloudy  bars 
Orion  bore  his  pomp  of  stars  ; 
Within,  the  wood-fire  fainter  glowed ; 
Weird  on  the  wall  the  shadows  showed ; 
Till,  in  the  east,  a  pallor  born 
Told  midnight  melting  into  morn 

Then  nearer  to  his  side  I  prest, 
Afraid  to  lose  my  angel-guest ;  — 
A  glance,  a  sigh  —  we  did  not  speak  — 
Fond  kisses  on  my  brow  and  cheek, 
A  sudden  sense  of  rapture  flown, 
And  in  the  dawn  I  sat  alone  ! 

'T  is  true  his  rest  this  many  a  year 

Has  made  the  village  church-yard  dear ; 

'T  is  true  his  stone  is  graven  fair, 

"  Here  lies,  remote  from  mortal  care  ;  "  — 

I  cannot  tell  how  both  may  be, 

But  well  I  know  he  talked  with  me ! 

And  oft,  when  other  fires  are  low, 
I  sit  within  that  midnight  glow ; 
My  head  upon  his  shoulder  leant, 
His  tender  glances  downward  bent, 
And  win  the  dream  to  sweet  delay 
Till  stars  and  shadows  yield  to  day. 


THE   HEAVENS. 

WHAT  Alps  of  clouds  !     The  distant,  airy  deep 
Is  lightning-rent,  and  fleecy  mountains  tower, 
Pile  over  pile,  and  drift  across  the  blue, 
Wild -driven    by    the    warm,    fierce    wind   that 

blows 
From  fiery  Mars  ;  while,  through  their  rifts  and 

chasms, 

Shines  the  pure  ether  of  the  outer  realm, 
And  links  the  lone  earth  to  her  sister  spheres. 
Glorious  !     The  Universe  is  mine  the  while ! 
Fleet  Mercury,  companion  of  the  sun, 
And  loitering  Neptune  with  his  darkened  years, 
And  all  the  myriad,  myriad  worlds  that  roll 
Beyond  our  vision  dim,  but  seen  of  God, 
And  heard  in  symphonies  about  his  throne. 
And  if,  above  the  splendor  of  these  cliffs, 
Some  white-winged  angel   should   this   moment 

poise, 

And  in  a  voice  of  luring  sweetness  sing, 
"  Come  hither,  hither  with  the  seraphim  !  " 
I  should  as  lightly  follow  as  the  child, 
Who,  tired  of  silent  books  and  narrow  walls, 
Hears  from  the  garden  bowers  his  mother  call, 
And  runs  to  meet  her,  knowing  they  shall  roam 


THE  HEAVENS.  127 

Through    pleasant    woodlands   and    by   singing 

streams. 

Are  not  the  heavens  God's  pastures  of  delight, 
Whither  He  leads  us  when  our  tasks  are  done  ? 
Give  placid,  brooding  skies  to  Time  and  Love,  — 
Fond  human  love  that  nestles  in  the  vale 
And  shuns  the  wide  horizon  and  the  storm ; 
But,  for  Immortal  Birth,  a  sky  like  this, 
Upheaved,  tumultuous,  with  a  rushing  wind 
Swept  from  the  farthest  circle  of  the  stars 
To  bear  the  rapt,  exultant  soul  away  ! 

Or  such  an  evening  as  I  saw  in  June : 

All  day  the  rain  had  fallen,  but  the  clouds 

Lifted  at  twilight,  and  to  eastward  rolled ; 

And,  from  wet  woods  and  fields,  a  silver  mist 

Rose  silently,  half  zenith  high,  and  robed 

The  near  horizon,  mountains,  meadows,  groves, 

In  the  soft  lustre  of  its  filmy  veil, 

So  light,  so  thin,  that  through  its   shroud    the 

pines 

Loomed  darkly,  like  the  ghost  of  Loda  seen 
By  moonlight  on  the  hills  of  Inistore. 
When,  lo !  above  the  still  expanse,  a  cloud 
Lit  by  the  beams  of  the  departed  sun ! 
A  ship  of  flame  with  crimson  sails  and  masts 
All  fiery  bright ;   God's  glowing  galleon, 
Celestial-freighted  for  some  Eden-shore. 
And   ravished,   breathless,    fain   I   would   have 

cried, 


128  THE  HEAVENS. 

"  Ho  !  tarry  !  hither  turn  thy  gleaming  prow, 
And  take  my  soul  across  the  silver  sea !  " 

Or  an  October  sunset  in  the  hills : 
The  west  was  hanked  with  clouds ;  the  sun  ob 
scured  ; 

When,  suddenly,  just  on  the  horizon's  verge, 
He  burst  forth  in  farewell.    O  wondrous  change  ! 
The  south  was  sapphire  through  a  filmy  haze ; 
The  north,  the  clear,  pale,  lucent  green  of  waves 
That  break  in  foam  upon  a  shelving  shore ; 
The  dull,  gray  bars  were  palace-pillars  tall, 
Of  gorgeous  marbles,  jasper,  porphyry, 
And  flawless,  blushing  granite  such  as  floats 
From  far  Syene  quarries  down  the  Nile. 
And  domes  of  purest  gold  above  them  shone, 
And  towers  with  many  a  banner  burning  high,  — 
Purple  and  scarlet  on  an  amber  sheen,  — 
While  walls  of  topaz  and  great  rubies  blazed, 
As  flashed  the  sun  or  blew  the  shifting  breeze 
Through  the  wide  courts  and  up  the  columned 

aisles. 

Nay,  't  was  no  earthly  palace,  but  the  Bride,  — 
The  New  Jerusalem  from  God  come  down,  — 
And  I  had  but  to  cross  the  close-reapt  fields, 
And  pass  the  brook  and   gain   the   mountain's 

brow, 

To  swing  the  gate  of  pearl  and  enter  in, 
Forever  done  with  death  and  pain  and  tears ! 


HOW  LITTLE   OF  OUR   LIFE. 

(AFTER  READING  OF  THE  EARTHQUAKES  IN  SPAIN, 
DEC.,  1887.) 

How  little  of  our  life  this  earth  must  hold, 

How  slight,  at  most,  in  the  great  thought  of 

God, 

When  He  can  see  such  awful  ruin  rolled 
From  out  its  depths,  and  yawning  gulfs  enfold 

His  helpless  creatures,  till  the  very  sod 
Implores  his  mercy,  though  his  love  be  cold ! 
And  while  the  shores  yet  reel  where   terror 

trod, 
Across  them  sweep  the  ruthless  hurricane 

With    thunder's    roar    and    lightning's    fiery 

sword, 

Till  shrine  and  home  lie  prone  upon  the  plain  !  — 
Earthquake  and  stormy  wind  fulfil  his  word. 

How  little  of  our  life  this  earth  must  keep, 
How  swift  that  life  must  fly  to  fairer  spheres 

When  He  can  rend  it  thus,  though  we  may  weep 

To  sink  so  soon  in  death's  relentless  sleep, 

And  pray  to  pass  in  peace  our  human  years  — 

To  greet  the  sun,  and  love,  and  build,  and  reap 
The  harvests  we  have  sown  in  toil  and  tears ! 


130        HOW  LITTLE  OF  OUE  LIFE. 

For,  like  the  leaves  that  drop  in  storm  or  calm, 
Some  to  the  mould,  some  whirled  in  wreck 

abroad, 
Helpless   and   crushed   we    fall,   while   nature's 

psalm 
Bises,  unsaddened,  to  the  ear  of  God. 

This  life  !  what  is'it  but  a  single  bloom 

In  the  wide  summer's  wilderness  of  flowers  ? 
The  faintest  star  of  all  that  light  the  gloom  — 
One  shuttle-cast  of  God's  untiring  loom  — 
One  flying  moment  in  immortal  hours  ? 
And  death,  that  we  bewail  as  bitter  doom, 
What  but  the  gift  of  unimagined  dowers  ? 
God  were  not  God  else !  .  .  .  Let  us  welcome, 

then, 

The  smiting  angel,  and  our  fears  assuage  !  — 
How  sharp  soe'er  his  summons,  cry  "  Amen !  " 
And  go  to  gain  the  nobler  heritage. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  SOULS. 

LIKE  the  rise  and  set  of  the  starry  host 

Earth's  myriads  come  and  go  ; 
Yet  whence  we  speed  through  the  infinite  spaces  — 
Speed  as  the  light  and  leave  no  traces  — 
And  what  the  calm,  on  the  pale,  cold  faces, 
And  whither  we  pass  to  our  shining  places 

By  far  celestial  isle  and  coast, 
O  Lord,  we  may  not  know. 

But  we  are  thine,  and  thy  peace  descends 

As  our  hearts  cry  out  to  Thee  ; 
"  Peace  !  "   sigh  the  winds  o'er  the  lone  graves 

blowing,  — 

And  we  know  that  the  stars  the  azure  strewing, 
And  the  souls  whose  life  is  thy  bestowing, 
Forever  and  ever  to  Thee  are  going  — 
To  the  Love  that  rise  and  set  attends, 

And  the  Glory  that  is  to  be  ! 


A    PRAYER. 

LET  me  not  die,  O  Lord,  till  I  have  done 
Some  deed  to  bless  the  world  wherein  I  dwell ! 
Spoken  some  word  that  when  I  leave  the  sun 
In  other  hearts  the  tide  of  life  shall  swell, 
And,  like  a  clarion,  call  to  high  emprise, 
Though  hushed  for  aye  my  voice  and  closed  my 
eyes  ! 

For  I  have  been  so  glad,  thy  blue  below, 
That  earth  and  air  kept  carnival  with  me ; 
From  banks  of  rose  the  winds  that  softest  blow 
Bore  my  light  bark  across  a  halcyon  sea ; 
And  the   swift   year  through   all  its  days  and 

nights 
Blent  fairest  hopes  with  dear,  fulfilled  delights. 

And  I  have  swept  into  such  dread  abysms, 
Tossed  with  such  tides  on  sorrow's  wintry  main, 
That  neither  altar-fires  nor  holy  chrisms 
Could  light  my  soul  or  bring  a  balm  for  pain  ; 
But,  back  from  every  sheltering  harbor  blown, 
Through  the  great  darkness  I  have  groped  alone. 


A  PRAYER.  133 

And  shall  I  pass,  and  all  this  life  of  mine 
Sink  voiceless,  fruitless,  in  oblivion's  wells  ?  — 
I  who  have  drained  earth's  rue  and  quaffed  its 

wine, 
Whose   joys   have   touched  the   heavens,    whose 

griefs  the  hells  — 

Die  as  the  wind  upon  some  alien  shore 
That  sings  and  sighs,  then  falls  to  wake  no  more  ? 


A  TRUANT   FROM  EDEN. 

IN  a  mazy,  sunlit  garden, 

Where  was  neither  watch  nor  warden, 

But  the  butterflies  and  bees 

Rifling  the  laburnum-trees  ; 

Where  lilies  pale  and  purple  phlox 

Bent  above  the  bordering  box, 

And  clustering  pinks  and  crimson  roses 

Made  fragrant  even  the  orchard  closes  - 

There  one  blissful  hour  I  strayed 

With  the  boy  they  said  was  laid 

Forever  'neath  the  yew-tree's  shade  — 

Harold,  with  his  summers  seven  ! 

The  tower-clock  was  chiming  eleven 

As  I  saw  him  down  the  stair, 

With  his  blue  eyes,  and  chestnut  hair 

Backward  from  his  forehead  blown 

By  the  wind,  that  made  such  moan 

When  we  lost  him,  ('t  was  a  day 

In  dreary  March  he  went  away) 

But  that  now,  in  glad  surprise, 

Breathed  a  strain  of  Paradise. 

How  I  caught  him  to  my  heart ! 
"  Darling !  naught  again  shall  part 
You  and  me,  you  and  me  !  " 
Thrice  he  kissed  me ;  then  in  glee, 


A   TRUANT  FROM  EDEN.  135 

Down  the  winding  path  he  sped,  — 
So  he  was  wont  of  old  to  play  — 

I  could  see  his  shining  head 
Bright  the  darkling  boughs  between, 
As  if  a  sunbeam  glanced  that  way  ; 

While  I  followed  where  he  led, 
Followed  still,  through  gold  and  green, 
By  grove  and  walk,  his  dancing  feet ; 
And  as  he  ran,  now  fairy-fleet, 
Now  from  some  gloom  emerging  slow, 

Still  beckoning,  still  eluding  me, 
His  cheek  outvied  the  rose's  glow, 

His  voice,  the  robin's  minstrelsy. 

And  then,  and  then,  —  God  pity  me 
That  still  my  lonely  days  glide  on  — 
I  know  not  how,  but  he  was  gone! 
Unseen,  had  vanished  utterly ! 
Viewless  as  evening  zephyrs  pass 
That  softly  sway  the  meadow  grass ; 
Silent  as  April  sunlight  goes, 
When  a  black  cloud,  relentless,  throws 

Its  shadow  over  lawn  and  tree ! 
And  calling,  flying  where  he  fled, 
I  passed  the  lilies,  drooping,  dead, 
And,  breathless,  gained  the  vacant  stair ;  — 

The  sun  shone  wan  as  winter  moon  ; 
A  chill  wind  blew  the  rose-tree  bare, 
Strewing  its  blossoms  o'er  the  stone  ; 
And  he  was  gone,  and  I  alone, 

As  sharp  the  clock  rang  out  for  noon ! 


STANLEY  WAKE. 

Now  as  sinks  the  New  Year's  sim, 
Fadeless  Day  for  him  is  won  ! 
Closed  his  eyes  in  dreamless  rest  ;. 
Crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast ; 
Still  the  tireless,  bounding  feet 
Done  with  garden,  stair,  and  street, 
Hushed  the  voice  that  used  to  ring 
Clear  as  robin's  note  in  spring  ; 
There  he  lies,  so  calm,  so  fair, 
All  that 's  left  of  Stanley  Ware! 

"  O  Mamma  !  't  is  travelers  three 

Baby,  Mary,  I  will  be  !  "  — 

So  he  said  but  yester-night, 

Listening  with  a  boy's  delight 

To  some  tale  of  over  sea. 

Now  the  parting  winds  blow  free  ! 

Now  his  bark  is  launched  from  shore, 

All  its  sails  set,  to  explore 

Tranquil  oceans,  islands  rare, 

As  God  pilots  —  Stanley  Ware ! 

Would  we  call  him  back  to  earth  ? 
Back  from  his  immortal  birth  ? 


STANLEY   WARE.  137 

Wish  the  bark  those  tides  have  swung 
Tossed  our  gulfs  and  shoals  among  ? 
Let  our  tempests  beat  the  sails 
Spread  to  heaven's  ambrosial  gales  ? 
Nay,  sweet  Voyager !  for  thee 
Glorious  shines  the  crystal  sea  ! 
Farthest  deeps  thy  prow  may  dare, 
Angel-convoyed,  —  Stanley  Ware  ! 

Darling  !  when  the  sun  and  rain 
Make  our  cold  earth  bright  again, 
Violet,  rose,  anemone, 
Loveliest  blooms  will  symbol  thee ; 
Song  of  birds  in  forest  shrine 
Bring  us  still  some  tone  of  thine. 
And  at  last  will  dawn  the  day 
"When  we,  too,  shall  launch  away  ;  — 
O  what  bliss  with  thee  to  share 
Hours  celestial  —  Stanley  Ware ! 
Jan.  1,  1872. 


ALONE  WITH  GOD. 

BESIDE  the  bier  I  watched  his  rest  divine, 

While  sunset  faded  and  the  moon  rose  fair 
To  light  the  chamber  gloom  with  mellow  shine, 

And  kiss  the  lips  that  love  would  hardly  dare ; 
And  through  the  lattice,  from  the  meadows,  came 

The  south  wind  like  a  seraph,  fluting  low, 
And  fanned  his  cheek,  and  almost  breathed  his 
name, 

And  waved   the   pall's  weird   fringes   to  and 
fro. 

Oh,  life  I  would  have  given  for  look  or  word ! 

Alas,  alas,  he  could  not  hear  my  cry ! 
Caress  nor  prayer  his  wan,  cold  slumber  stirred ; 

The  wind  and  moonlight  were  as  dear  as  I ! 
Done  were  our  mingled  days  of  joy  and  care  ; 

Parted  the  paths  we  had  together  trod ; 
He  on  his  bier,  and  I  beside  him  there  — 

Each,  in  the  stillness,  was  alone  with  God. 


"COME  UNTO  ME." 

THE  sweetest  words  that  ever  fell 

By  mount  or  wave,  in  shrine  or  cell, 

Or,  altar-chanted,  stole  through  aisle 

The  tortured  heart  from  pain  to  wile, 

Are  these  the  Master  spoke  when  free 

He  walked  thy  shores,  fair  Galilee  ! 

And  called  his  burdened  followers  there 

With  tender  love  and  pitying  prayer  : 

Whoe'er  ye  be,  alien  or  neighbor,  father,  mother, 

maiden,  with  grief  and  care  opprest, 
Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 

laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest  I 

What  glorious  hope  uplifts  the  throng 
As  float  these  blessed  words  along  I 
Prophet  nor  priest  nor  angels  seven 
Had  opened  thus  the  gate  of  heaven, 
And  he  who  treads,  like  them,  the  sod, 
Must  be  Messiah,  Son  of  God  ! 
Oh,  life  had  been  a  weary  quest, 
But  now  they  shall  find  rest,  find  rest ! 
Transporting  grace  that  thus  distils 
The  dew  of  peace  upon  their  hills, 
And,  far  from  court  or  Temple's  shrine, 
Takes,  for  the  lowest,  thought  divine !  — 


140  "  COME  UNTO  ME." 

Whoe'er  ye  be,  alien  or  neighbor,  father,  mother, 
maiden,  with  grief  and  care  opprest, 

Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ! 

More  dazzling  Hermon  lifts  his  snow  ; 
Fairer  the  blue  lake  gleams  below ; 

The  wind  sings,  down  Esdraelon ; 
Glad  are  the  oaks  in  Tabor's  glade  ; 
And,  hoar  with  thousand  years  of  shade, 

The  cedars  thrill  on  Lebanon  ; 
While  Jordan's  oleander  bowers 
In  rosier  bloom  unfold  their  flowers, 
And  listening  waves  make  low  replies 
As  breathes  that  strain  of  Paradise  : 
Whoe'er  ye  be,  alien  or  neighbor,  father,  mother, 

maiden,  with  grief  and  care  opprest, 
Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ! 

And  still  that  sweet,  celestial  call 

Wafts  down  from  wave  and  mountain  wall ;  — 

O  rest  of  God  !     O  perfect  Peace  ! 

Bring  to  our  burdened  souls  release  ! 

For  faint  and  worn  and  grieved  are  we 

As  those  who  walked  by  Galilee ! 

And  clouds  in  sunshine  will  depart, 

And  wildest  tumult  sink  to  calm, 
If  deep  we  hear  within  the  heart 

The  Master's  words  that  drop  as  balm  : 


"  COME  UNTO  ME."  141 

"Whoe'er  ye  be,  alien  or  neighbor,  father,  mother. 

maiden,  with  grief  and  care  opprest, 
Come  unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 

laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest ! 


PRAYERS  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

NAY  !     I  will  pray  for  them  until  I  go 

To  their  far  realm  beyond  the  strait  of  death ! 
For,  past  the  deeps  and  all  the  winds  that  blow, 
Somewhere  within  God's  silences  I  know 

My  yearning  heart,  my  prayers  with   sobbing 

breath, 
Will  find  and  bring  them  gladness  !     Drear  and 

slow 
Would  dawn  my  days,  were  they  not  followed  so 

With  perfect  love  that  never  varyeth  ! 
Does  the  fond  wife,  when  mists  hide  wave  and 

lea, 

Forget  her  fisher's  safety  to  implore, 
Till  the  lost  bark  that  holds  her  joy  in  fee, 

Blithe,  through   the   billows,    comes  again    to 

shore  ?  — 

Our  vanished  ones  but  sail  a  vaster  sea, 
And  there,  as  here,  God  listens  evermore. 


THE  PERFECT   DAY. 

THE  blast  has  swept  the  clouds  away, 

The  gloom,  the  mist,  the  rain ; 
Serene  and  blue  is  all  the  sky 
Save  for  a  white  cloud  floating  high, 
A  lone,  celestial  argosy 

That  dares  the  azure  main  ; 
And,  light  as  wafts  of  Eden  blow, 
The  zephyrs  wander  to  and  fro. 

What  do  I  care  that  yester-night 
The  wind  was  loud  and  chill  ? 

Now  earth  is  lapt  in  sunny  calm ; 

The  woods,  the  fields,  exhale  their  balm ; 

And  breeze  and  brook  and  bird  a  psalm 
Sing  sweet,  by  vale  and  hill ;  — 

What  do  I  care  that  skies  were  cold  ? 

To-day  all  heaven  is  flushed  with  gold. 

O  when  the  blast  of  death  has  blown 

The  clouds  of  time  away, 
So  may  the  shadows  of  our  years  — 
The  gloom  of  doubts  and  griefs  and  fears 
And  dark  regrets  and  bitter  tears  — 

Fade  in  God's  perfect  day ! 
And  seem  as  slight  and  brief  and  vain 
As  yester-evening's  mist  and  rain. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A.  E.  C. 

A  murmuring  music  filled  the  room  ; 

The  air  grew  sweet  with  spring-time  flowers ; 
The  clock  ticked  softer  on  the  wall, 

As  loth  to  count  immortal  hours. 

MY  world  is  peopled  not  alone 
By  those  its  daily  life  who  share  ; 

The  loved  whom  other  years  have  known 
Descend  from  their  diviner  air, 

As  one  might  come  from  over  sea, 

Or  down  the  street  to  sit  with  me 

And  make  the  fairest  morn  more  fair  ; 

And  mine  are  earth  and  sun  and  star, 

With  friends  who  were  and  friends  who  are. 

They  are  the  same  as  when  they  went  — 
Tender  and  true  and  still  my  own ; 

But  rarer  beauty  Heaven  has  lent, 
As  if  some  wind  of  God  had  blown 

All  trace  of  doubt  and  care  and  dole 

From  each  serene,  enfranchised  soul, 

And  they  could  never  more  make  moan  !  - 

Yet  my  unlikeness  cannot  bar 

From  friends  who  were  and  friends  who  are. 

O  pure  and  blessed  presences 
That  enter,  noiseless  as  the  light, 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A.  E.  C.  145 

From  your  celestial  pleasances, 

What  welcome  waits  you,  dawn  or  night ! 
And  in  the  sweetness,  the  repose, 
My  common  room  a  temple  grows, 

All  rosy  bloom  and  stainless  white, 
Where  I  commune,  no  fear  to  mar, 
With  friends  who  were  and  friends  who  are. 

Yet  not  to  outward  sight  they  come  ; 

A  finer  sense  their  presence  tells  ; 
As  when,  from  winter  cold  and  dumb, 

Unseen  the  south  wind  wakes  the  dells  — 
The  south  wind  and  the  silent  sun  — 
While  robins  sing  and  brooklets  run 

And  every  bud  with  rapture  swells  ! 
Such  soul  of  spring,  such  Avatar, 
Come  friends  who  were  and  friends  who  are. 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

WHEN  I  am  dead,  O  let  it  be, 
Dear  Lord  !  for  blessed  rest  in  Thee ! 
Then,  though  my  ear  had  never  known 
The  rapture  of  a  loving  tone, 
Nor  tender  kisses  prest  my  brow 
When  heart  to  heart  gave  holiest  vow, 
Nor  fame's  bewildering  music  stole 
Like  a  sweet  fever  through  my  soul,  — 
I  shall  lie  down  as  kings  do  lie, 
In  royal  state  and  majesty  ; 
Nor  cedar  need,  nor  purple  fold, 
Nor  sculptured  stone,  nor  fretted  gold, 
But  find  my  silent  chamber  there 
Than  fairest  couch  of  earth  more  fair, 
For  Thou,  the  King  of  kings,  wilt  spread 
The  pillow  for  my  weary  head. 

And  whether,  where  I  rest  alone, 
Come  foes  to  scorn  or  friends  to  moan, 
I  shall  not  heed  them,  —  hid  in  joy, 
Nor  friend  can  give  nor  foe  alloy ; 
But  peaceful  sleep,  as  children  slumber 
Whose  mother's  thoughts  the  minutes  number, 
For  Thou,  the  Lord,  with  love  divine 
Wilt  watch  beside  that  grave  of  mine. 


TAKE  HEART! 

ALL  day  the  stormy  wind  has  blown 
From  off  the  dark  and  rainy  sea ; 

No  bird  has  past  the  window  flown, 

The  only  song  has  been  the  moan 
The  wind  made  in  the  willow-tree. 

This  is  the  summer's  burial  time  ; 

She  died  when  dropped  the  earliest  leaves, 
And,  cold  upon  her  rosy  prime, 
Fell  direful  autumn's  frosty  rime,  — 

Yet  I  am  not  as  one  that  grieves ; 

For  well  I  know  o'er  sunny  seas 

The  bluebird  waits  for  April  skies ; 
And  at  the  roots  of  forest  trees 
The  May-flowers  sleep  in  fragrant  ease, 
And  violets  hide  their  azure  eyes. 

O  thou,  by  winds  of  grief  o'erblown 

Beside  some  golden  summer's  bier,  — 
Take  heart !     Thy  birds  are  only  flown, 
Thy  blossoms  sleeping,  tearful  sown, 
To  greet  thee  in  the  immortal  year ! 


FORWARD. 

DREAMER,  waiting  for  darkness  with  sorrowful, 

drooping  eyes, 
Linger  not  in  the  valley,  bemoaning  the  day 

that  is  done  ! 
Climb  the  eastern   mountains  and  welcome  the 

rosy  skies  — 

Never  yet  was  the  setting  so  fair  as  the  rising 
sun! 

Dear  is  the  past ;  its  treasures  we  hold  in  our 

hearts  for  aye  ; 
Woe  to  the  hand  that  would  scatter  one  wreath 

of  its  garnered  flowers  ; 
But  larger  blessing  and  honor  will  come  with  the 

waking  day  — 

Hail,  then,  To-morrow,  nor  tarry  with  Yester 
day's  ghostly  hours ! 

Mark  how  the  summers  hasten,  through  blossom 
ing  fields  of  June, 
To  the  purple  lanes  of  the  vintage  and  levels 

of  golden  corn ; 

"  Splendors  of  life  I  lavish,"  runs  nature's  exul 
tant  rune, 

"  For  myriads  press  to  follow,  and  the  rarest 
are  yet  unborn." 


FORWARD.  149 

Think  how  eager  the  earth  is,  and  every  star  that 

shines, 
To    circle   the    grander    spaces    about    God's 

throne  that  be  ; 
Never  the  least  moon  loiters  nor  the  largest  sun 

declines  — 

Forward  they  roll  forever  those  glorious  depths 
to  see. 

Dreamer,  waiting  for  darkness  with  sorrowful, 

drooping  eyes, 
Summers  and  suns  go  gladly,  and  wherefore 

dost  thou  repine  ? 
Climb  the  hills  of  morning  and  welcome  the  rosy 

skies  — 

The  joy  of  the  boundless   future  —  nay,  God 
himself  —  is  thine ! 


THROUGH  STORM  AND  SUN. 

THROUGH  storm  and  sun  the  age  draws  on 

When  heaven  and  earth  shall  meet ; 
For  the  Lord  has  said  that  glorious 

He  will  make  the  place  of  his  feet. 
And  the  grass  may  die  on  the  summer  hills, 

And  the  flower  fade  by  the  river, 
But  our  God  is  the  same  through  endless  years, 

And  his  word  shall  stand  forever. 


THE  HOMELESS. 

SAD  hearts  !  the  wayside  and  the  wilderness 

Are  near  to  Heaven  as  any  fire-lit  room  ; 
Despairing  Hagar  angels  stoop  to  bless  ; 

God  talks  with  Moses  in  the  desert  gloom ; 
And  life  is  but  a  path  to  his  repose 

Whether  we  walk  through  meads  of  joy  and 

love 

Or  in  lone  wastes  where  every  tempest  blows  ;  — 
Some  peerless  morn  we  reach  our  journey's  close, 

And  lo !  the  rapture  of  the  home  above  ! 


HOPE   AND  DESPAIR. 

CLOUDS,  dark  and  lowering,  hid  the  sky ; 
Despair  with  cup  of  rue  stood  by 

And  sighed,  "  Drink,  and  be  mine  !  " 
But  with  such  tears  and  moans  she  prayed, 
To  Hope  I  turned  —  the  radiant  maid  — 

And  quaffed  her  rosy  wine. 
That  instant  heaven  was  sunny  blue  !  — 
And  in  my  secret  soul  I  knew 
Despair,  the  coward,  brought  the  shade, 

Brave-hearted  Hope  the  shine. 


"THIS,  TOO,  WILL  PASS." 

"  THIS,  too,  will  pass  !  "  the  Arab  king 
Engraved  upon  his  signet  ring ; 
And  thus,  through  grief  and  joy,  his  heart 
Dwelt,  in  eternal  peace,  apart. 


FAIR  scenes  and  songs  in  dreams  are  nigh, 
Their  old  enchantment  bringing  ;  — 

Snow-fed  Barada  lapses  by  ; 

The  muezzin  calls  from  his  turret  high 
As  the  rosy  dawn  is  springing  ; 

The  lark  is  lost  in  the  English  sky, 
And  the  Kremlin  bells  are  ringing  ! 


ENGLAND. 

O  MOTHER-COUNTRY  !     Of  a  continent 

The  fairest  lands  and  climes  we  proudly  hold  ; 

And  flocks,  and  herds,  and  corn,  and  wine,  and 

gold, 

And  stately  cities,  of  earth's  rarest  blent, 
Are  richly  ours  ;   and   we  are  well  content 

With   our   bright  world,  our   banner's   starry 
fold, 

And  would  not  be  by  other  name  enrolled,  — 
Yet  how  we  love  thee  through  our  one  descent, 
Our  common  tongue,  our  old,  immortal  story  ! 
Imperial  England,  throned  amid  the  seas, 

Under  all  suns  thy  daring  bugles  blow  ; 
The    east  winds    and    the  west  waft    thy  de 
crees  ;  — 

Forever  light,  law,  liberty,  bestow, 
And  farthest  ages  celebrate  thy  glory ! 


THE  SONG  BY  THE  BARADA. 

OVER  the  brow  of  Lebanon, 

In  a  blaze  of  splendor  sank  the  sun, 

Its  gold  on  the  valley  glowing  ; 
After  a  day  now  dark,  now  fair, 
With  a  wild  sirocco  sweeping  bare 
The  mountain  paths,  as  we  journeyed  there, 

To  stately  Baalbec  going. 

All  in  the  dusk  our  tents  gleamed  white 
Where  lone  Barada  lulled  the  night, 

Cool  from  the  snows  of  Hermon  ; 
Around  us,  rose  and  hawthorn  blooms 
Hung,  sad,  above  Abila's  tombs  ; 
And  her  ruined  temples,  through  the  glooms. 

Looked  with  a  voiceless  sermon. 

The  wild  wind  fell ;  and,  past  compare, 
Up  in  the  wonderful  depths  of  air 

Floated  the  starry  islands  ;  — 
Floated  so  calm,  so  bright,  so  near, 
From  the  curtained  door  I  leaned  to  hear, 
Perchance,  some  song  of  the  blessed,  clear, 

In  the  great  o'erarching  silence. 


THE  SONG  BY  THE  BAR  AD  A.       157 

By  the  tethered  horses,  from  man  to  man 
Speech  and  laughter  alternate  ran, 

Where  the  muleteers  were  lying  ; 
But  story  and  merriment  fainter  grew, 
Till  the  only  sound  the  tent-court  knew 
Was  the  dragoman's  footfall  echoing  through, 

Or  the  wind  in  the  walnut  sighing. 

Listen  !  what  steals  on  the  air  ?     Has  the  breeze 
Wafted  down  from  the  shining  seas 

A  song  of  the  seraphs  seven  ?  — 
Soft  and  low  as  the  soothing  fall 
Of  the  fountains  of  Eden  ;  sweet  as  the  call 
Of  angels  over  the  jasper  wall 

That  welcomes  a  soul  to  heaven. 

It  swells  !  it  mounts  !  it  fills  the  vale  ! 
The  hawthorns  tremble  ;  the  roses  pale 

At  its  passionate,  glorious  mazes  !  — 
'T  is  a  Peri  hymning  of  Paradise  ! 
'T  is  the  plaint  of  a  spirit  that  yearns  and  sighs, 
Though  lapped  in  the  nameless  bliss  of  the  skies, 

For  a  lost  love's  embraces  ! 

A  moment's  hush  with  the  falling  strain  ;  — 
And  the  wild  wind,  rising,  roared  amain 

O'er  the  stream  and  the  covert  shady ! 
Breathless  I  stood  in  the  curtained  door, 
But  the  ravishing  melody  came  no  more  ; 
And  the  dragoman,  crossing  the  tent  before, 

Cried,  "  The  Nightingale,  my  lady." 


158        THE  SONG  BY  THE  BARADA. 

Yet  still,  when  April  suns  are  low, 
I  hear  the  wild  sirocco  blow, 

And  see,  in  memory's  vision, 
Abila's  ruins  strew  the  hill ; 
The  stars  the  Syrian  azure  fill ; 
While,  listening,  all  my  pulses  thrill 

As  soars  that  song  Elysian. 


THE  SOUTH  WIND. 

(JOB  xxxvii.   17.) 

O  THE  kiss  of  love  and  the  soul  of  song 

Is  the  south  wind  after  frosts  and  snows  ! 
Swallow  and  violet  wait  not  long 

When  warm  from  the  vales  of  heaven  it  blows ; 
And  meadow  and  wood  and  ocean's  breast 
In  a  trance  of  blissful  languor  rest, 
And  the  stars  beam  soft  on  the  brooding  year, 
And  God  himself  comes  near,  comes  near, 
When  He  quiets  the  earth  by  the  south  wind ! 


THE  ORIOLE. 

THE  sun  on  the  oriole's  flashing  breast 

As  he  flits  through  the  rosy  apple-flowers, 
A  waning  moon  in  the  tender  west, 
And,  high  in  the  boughs,  an  empty  nest 

Beaten  by  winter's  blasts  and  showers  ;  — 
Hush  !  his  ravishing  carol  rings 

From  the  topmost  twig  he  makes  his  throne  ! 
Rich  as  the  hue  of  his  glancing  wings  — 

Mellow  as  flute-notes  zephyr-blown 
Down  Phrygian  dells  when  day  is  done  !  — 
Oriole,  singing  aloft  in  the  sun, 
The  waning  moon  and  the  empty  nest, 
Shadow  and  silence,  at  God's  behest, 

Follow  shine  and  the  brood  in  the  bowers ; 
Follow,  and  who  knows  which  is  best  ?  — 

Sing  on,  by  the  rosy  apple-flowers. 


THE  SONG  OF  SONGS. 

O  THE  lark  by  Avon's  side 

When  the  leas  were  wet  with  dew, 
Soaring  heavenward,  fain  to  hide 

In  the  far  celestial  blue  ! 
Light  the  wind  of  June  went  by  ; 

Rose  the  mist  in  sunny  mazes ; 
High  o'er  cloud  and  zephyr  winging 
To  the  angels  soared  he,  singing 
Golden-sweet,  —  then  silently 

Dropped  to  rest  amid  the  daisies. 

How  the  building  thrushes  sung 

In  gardens  where  the  Limmat  flows, 
Just  as  morning's  gate  outswung 

Flushing  all  the  Alps  with  rose  ! 
How  the  chorus  jubilant 

Floated  over  lake  and  river  ! 
Life  was  joy  and  earth  was  young 
"While  those  building  thrushes  sung  ;  — 
Ah !  their  melody  will  haunt 

Zurich  in  my  thought  forever. 

Lark  and  thrush,  I  love  you  well ; 
But  I  heard  a  rarer  song 


162  THE  SONG  OF  SONGS. 

As  a  wild  March  evening  fell 

Bleak  New  Hampshire's  heights  along. 
Trees  were  bare  and  brooks  were  still ; 

On  Kearsarge  the  snow  was  lying  ; 
One  red  cloud  athwart  the  gray 
Faded,  faded  slow  away, 
And  the  north  wind  down  the  hill 

Like  the  dirge  of  hope  was  sighing. 

Hark  !  a  robin  in  the  elm 

Warbling  notes  so  glad  and  free, 
Straight  he  brought  a  summer  realm 

Over  thousand  leagues  of  sea  ! 
High  he  sang  :  "A  truce  to  fear  ! 

Frost  and  storm  are  but  the  portal 
We  must  pass  ere  June  befall, 
And  the  Lord  is  love  through  all !  " 
Lark  and  thrush,  your  lays  are  dear, 

But  the  robin's  is  immortal ! 


GOLDENROD  AND  ASTERS. 

THE  goldenrod,  the  goldenrod 

That  glows  in  sun  or  rain, 
Waving  its  plumes  on  every  bank 

From  the  mountain  slope  to  the  main,  — 
Not  dandelions,  nor  cowslips  fine, 

Nor  buttercups,  gems  of  summer, 
Nor  leagues  of  daisies  yellow  and  white, 

Can  rival  this  latest  comer  ! 

On  the  plains  and  the  upland  pastures 

Such  regal  splendor  falls 
When  forth,  from  myriad  branches  green, 

Its  gold  the  south  wind  calls,  — 
That  the  tale  seems  true  the  Red  man's  god 

Lavished  its  bloom  to  say, 
"  Though  days  grow  brief  and  suns  grow  cold, 

My  love  is  the  same  for  aye." 

And,  darker  than  April  violets 

Or  pallid  as  wind-flowers  grow, 
Under  its  shadow  from  hill  to  meadow 

Great  beds  of  asters  blow  ;  — 
O  plots  of  purple  o'erhung  with  gold 

That  need  nor  walls  nor  wardens, 
Not  fairer  shone,  to  the  Median  Queen, 

Her  Babylonian  gardens ! 


164          GOLDENEOD  AND  ASTERS. 

On  Scotia's  moors  the  gorse  is  gay, 

And  England's  lanes  and  fallows 
Are  decked  with  broom  whose  winsome  grace 

The  hovering  linnet  hallows  ; 
But  the  robin  sings  from  his  maple  bough, 

"  Ah,  linnet,  lightly  won, 
Your  bloom  to  my  blaze  of  wayside  gold 

Is  the  wan  moon  to  the  sun  !  " 

And  were  I  to  be  a  bride  at  morn, 

Ere  the  chimes  rang  out  I  'd  say, 
"  Not  roses  red,  but  goldenrod 

Strew  in  my  path  to-day  ! 
And  let  it  brighten  the  dusky  aisle, 

And  flame  on  the  altar-stair, 
Till  the  glory  and  light  of  the  fields  shall  flood 

The  solemn  dimness  there  ;  " 

And  should  I  sleep  in  my  shroud  at  eve, 

Not  lilies  pale  and  cold, 
But  the  purple  asters  of  the  wood 

Within  my  hand  I  'd  hold  ;  - 
For  goldenrod  is  the  flower  of  love 

That  time  and  change  defies  ; 
And  asters  gleam  through  the  autumn  air 

With  the  hues  of  Paradise  ! 


A  CRIMSON  CLOVER. 

THE  maples  dropped  their  withered  leaves ; 

Wan,  through  the  mist,  the  sunset  shone ; 
And  from  the  upland,  bare  of  sheaves, 

The  jay's  call  floated,  weird  and  lone. 
No  robin's  song  the  orchard  stirred  ; 

No  oriole  flashed  from  elm  to  elm ; 
Nor  even  the  cricket's  chirp  was  heard, 

Through  all  that  gray  November  realm. 

The  dreary  sky,  the  drifting  leaves, 

The  jay's  far-off,  funereal  strain, 
Thrilled  me,  till,  sad  as  one  who  grieves 

Above  his  dead,  I  walked  the  lane. 
When  lo !  'mid  ferns  that,  fresh  and  fair, 

Still  drooped  beneath  a  sheltering  wall 
And  gave  their  fragrance  to  the  air, 

A  crimson  clover,  sweet  and  tall ! 

O  heart  of  joy !     0  breath  of  June ! 

O  grace  I  thought  forever  fled ! 
The  rose's  scent,  the  robin's  tune, 

Were  wafted  from  that  clover  red ! 
The  lane  grew  pink  with  apple-blooms, 

A  paradise  of  murmuring  bees, 


166  A  CRIMSON  CLOVER. 

And  softly,  through  the  maple-glooms, 
From  sunny  meadows  stole  the  breeze  ! 

So  night  fell,  hut  it  seemed  not  dark  ; 

The  wind  blew,  but  it  was  not  chill ; 
Up  rolled  the  mist  till  I  could  mark 

The  Pleiades  gleam  above  the  hill. 
"Ah,  storm  and  loss,  regret  and  pain, 

Ye  are  but  shades  that  pass  !  "  I  said ; 
And,  turning  homeward  through  the  lane, 

I  plucked  and  wore  the  clover  red. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH  IN  AUTUMN. 

I  KNOW,  and  the  sunset-angel  knows, 
Painter  nor  palette  could  paint  the  rose, 
The  bush  that  tall  by  the  border  grows 

And  waves  in  the  wind  to-day !  — 
Ruby  and  brown  where  the  green  has  fled, 
Bronzed,  and  brightened  with  gold  and  red, 
Purple  and  amber,  so  lit  and  wed 
By  the  sun  in  the  soft  blue  overhead 

And  the  light  wind's  careless  sway, 
That  the  perfect  bloom  of  its  summer  flowers 
Is  poor  to  the  wealth  of  these  autumn  hours, 
And  the  richest  jewels  of  Asia's  mines 
Are  pale  to  the  hues  of  its  pendent  vines 

And  the  tints  of  its  topmost  spray ! 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

(FOE  Music.) 

Now  shadows  fold  the  sunset  gold, 

The  vesper  stars  gleam  fair, 
No  robin  sings,  no  swallow  wings 

Its  eager  flight  in  air. 
But  dews  the  drooping  roses  fill 

With  silent,  balmy  rain, 
And  murmuring  rill  and  zephyr  thrill 

The  hush  of  grove  and  plain,  — 
Good-night ! 

Good-night !  good-night !  the  moon  will  light 

The  east  before  the  dawn, 
And  stars  arise  to  gem  the  skies 

When  these  have  westward  gone. 
Good-night !  and  sweet  be  thy  repose 

Through  all  their  shining  way, 
Till  darkness  goes,  and  bird  and  rose 

With  rapture  greet  the  day,  — 
Good-night ! 


WHEN  THE   ROSE   HAS   OPENED. 

OUT  of  dreams,  in  the  midnight  gloom, 

I  wake  and  the  wind  blows  over  the  sea ; 
It  has  heard  the  storm  and  the  thunder  boom, 

And  the  petrel  cry,  on  its  way  to  me. 
Through  the  lattice  it  sighs  and  swells, 

But  my  heart  is  so  light  and  glad  and  gay, 
That  it  comes  like  the  music  of  fairy  bells, 

Rung  in  the  green-wood,  far  away  ; 
Sweet  as  the  carol  the  children  sing 

When  lover  and  bride  from  the  altar  go, 
And,  under  the  shadow  the  lindens  fling, 

Enter  their  door  in  the  sunset  glow. 

Still,  to-night,  from  the  starless  sky 

Will  fall  the  white  frost's  glittering  sheen, 
And  faint  in  its  chill  embrace  will  lie 

Bud  and  blossom  and  mossy  green  ; 
Dead  they  will  droop  in  the  pallid  noon, 

But  I  shall  not  weep  for  their  sweetness  fled, 
For  hid  in  my  heart's  immortal  June 

Is  a  flower  unfolding,  glorious  red. 
Moan,  O  wind  of  the  stormy  deep  ! 

'T  is  the  breeze  from  the  Isles  of  the  Blest  I 

hear; 
Sink,  fair  blooms,  to  your  wintry  sleep ! 

There  's  a  fairer  waiting  to  crown  the  year. 


170    WHEN    THE  EOSE  HAS  OPENED. 

When  the  rose  has  opened,  the  nightingale  cares 

No  more  for  the  paler  buds  that  blow ; 
When  the  pearl  is  the  prize  which   the   diver 
bears, 

The  sea  may  sleep  in  its  depths  below. 
Love  is  the  rose  earth's  bowers  enshrine, 

And  the  gleaming  pearl  of  the  caverned  sea ; 
Now  the  rose  and  the  pearl  are  mine,  are  mine, 

And  what  is  the  land  or  the  wave  to  me  ? 
Death  may  come  in  the  morning  glow, 

Or  under  the  sunset's  amber  shine,  — 
I  shall  say,  "  Welcome !     I  wait  to  go ; 

For  the   rose   and  the  pearl  are   mine,  are 


THY  PSYCHE. 

LIKE  a  strain  of   wondrous  music  rising  up  in 

cloister  dim, 
Through  my  life's  unwritten  measures  thou  dost 

steal,  a  glorious  hymn  ! 
All  the  joys  of  earth  and  heaven  in  the  singing 

meet  and  flow, 
Richer,  sweeter,  for  the  wailing  of  an  undertone 

of  woe ; 
How  I  linger,  how  I  listen  for  each  mellow  note 

that  falls, 
Clear  as  chime  of  angels  floating  downward  o'er 

the  jasper  walls. 

Every  night  when  winds  are  moaning  round  my 
chamber  by  the  sea, 

Thine 's  the  face  that,  through  the  darkness, 
latest  looks  with  love  at  me  ; 

And  I  dream,  ere  thou  departest  thou  dost  press 
thy  lips  to  mine,  — 

Then  I  sleep  as  slept  the  immortals  after  draughts 
of  Hebe's  wine ! 

As  the  young  Endymion  slumbered  in  a  moon 
light  trance  of  bliss, 

When,  on  lonely  Latmos  lying,  Dian  stooped  his 
lips  to  kiss ! 


172  THY  PSYCHE. 

'T  was  thy  soul-wife,  't  was  thy  Psyche,  one  up 
lifted,  heavenly  day 
Thou  did'st  call  me,  —  how  divinely  on  thy  brow 

love's  glory  lay ! 
Thou,  my  Cupid,  —  not  the  boy-god  whom  the 

Thespians  did  adore, 
But  the  man  so  large,  so  noble,  truer  god  than 

Venus  bore. 
I,    thy   Psyche,  —  yet  what   blackness   in  this 

thread  of  gold  is  wove ; 
Thou  canst  never,  never  lead  me  proud  before 

the  throne  of  Jove  ! 
All  the  gods  might  strive  to  help  thee  through 

the  longest  summer  day ; 
Still  would  watch  the  fatal  Sisters  spinning  in 

the  twilight  gray, 
And   their   calm   and   silent    faces,    changeless, 

looking  through  the  gloom, 
From  eternity  would  answer,  "  Thou  canst  ne'er 

escape  thy  doom." 
Couldst  thou  claim  me,  couldst  thou  clasp  me, 

'neath  the  blue  Elysian  skies, 
Then  what  music  and  what  fragrance  through 

their  azure  depths  would  rise  ! 
Roses  all  the  Hours  would  scatter;  every  god 

would  bring  us  joy  ; 
So,  in  perfect  loving  blended,  bliss  would  never 

know  alloy. 


THY  PSYCHE.  173 

O  my  heart !  the  vision  changes  ;  fades  the  soft, 
celestial  blue  ; 

Dies  away  the  rapturous  music,  thrilling  all  my 
pulses  through ; 

Lone  I  sit  within  my  chamber,  storms  are  beat 
ing  'gainst  the  pane, 

And  my  tears  are  falling  faster  than  the  chill 
December  rain,  — 

Yet,  though  I  am  doomed  to  linger,  joyless,  on 
this  earthly  shore, 

Thou  art  Cupid,  I  am  Psyche,  we  are  wedded 
evermore. 


LOVE  SONG  OF  THE  OMAHAS.12 

FADES  the  star  of  morning, 

West  winds  gently  blow, 
Soft  the  pine-trees  murmur, 

Soft  the  waters  flow. 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

To  the  hill-top  nigh,  — 
Gloom  and  fear  will  vanish 

When  the  pale  stars  die  ;  — 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

Hear  thy  lover's  cry ! 

From  my  tent  I  wander 

Longing  but  for  thee, 
As  the  day  from  darkness 

Comes  the  earth  to  see. 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

To  the  hill-top  nigh,  — 
Lo,  the  dawn  is  breaking  ; 

Rosy  beams  the  sky  ;  — 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

Hear  thy  lover's  cry ! 

Lonely  is  our  valley 

Though  the  month  is  May ; 


LOVE  SONG  OF  THE  OMAHAS.       175 

Come  and  be  my  moonlight, 

I  will  be  thy  day  !  — 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

O  behold  me  nigh  ! 
Now  the  sun  is  rising ; 

Now  the  shadows  fly  ; 
Lift  thine  eyes,  my  maiden, 

Hear  thy  lover's  cry ! 


TERESA. 

AM  I  too  happy  ?     Have  I  lost 
The  hymns  of  heaven,  the  shining  host, 
For  the  low  song  my  Bertrand  sings 
Beneath  the  shade  the  myrtle  flings 
Across  the  door  in  sunset  glow  ? 
And  for  my  cherub  Angelo  ?  — 
My  glorious  boy  with  sweeter  smile 
Than  wears,  within  St.  Francis'  aisle, 
That  infant  John  the  friars  say 
Will  yet  take  wing  and  soar  away ! 
Nay,  —  Mary,  grace  !  with  hair  of  gold 
And  brow  like  the  young  Christ's  you  hold, 
O'er  the  high  altar,  hovering  fair, 
Upborne  by  some  celestial  air  ! 

How  calm  he  sleeps  upon  my  breast ! 
Would  the  great  Father  send  such  guest 
Into  my  bosom,  if  to  win 
And  welcome  were  a  deadly  sin  ? 
Or  give  the  boy  my  Bertrand's  eyes 
If  evil  lurked  in  Bertrand's  guise  ? 
Hark !  't  is  his  step  across  the  sward  ; 
Forgive  me  if  I  wander,  Lord ! 
But  oh,  I  surely  love  Thee  more 
For  the  dear  face  beside  the  door, 


TERESA.  Ill 

And  for  the  fond  arms'  tender  fold, 
Than  if  I  knelt,  a  maiden  cold, 
And  only  knew  of  love  and  Thee 
What  the  lone  cloister  taught  to  me. 

And  yet  the  priest  says  I  have  sealed 
My  own  damnation  ;  madly  healed 
My  orphan  sorrow  with  a  name 
Will  send  me  straight  to  burning  flame  ! 
Because  I  dared  to  give  my  vows 
To  Bertrand  ;  would  not  be  the  spouse 
Of  Holy  Church,  and  wear  the  veil 
Within  the  convent's  dreary  pale,  — 
Our  Lady's,  —  hid  in  dusk  of  trees 
High  up  the  chilly  Pyrenees, 
Where  the  white,  ghostly  nuns  look  out, 
And  wild  winds  toss  the  boughs  about, 
And  moan  and  mutter  through  the  air, 
Of  fast  and  scourge  and  midnight  prayer. 
Oh,  what  a  living  death  were  mine, 
Locked  in  that  gloom  of  fir  and  pine  ! 

And  here,  like  roses  to  the  sun, 
My  bright  days  open,  one  by  one  ; 
And  deep  within  their  bloom,  my  heart 
Sings  like  some  nightingale  apart 
In  orange  grove,  while  winds  of  May 
Up  the  still  valley  waft  his  lay ! 
And  have  I  failed  of  heaven  for  this  ? 
Bartered  my  soul  for  Bertrand's  kiss  ? 


178  TEEESA. 

Foregone  sweet  Mary's  kindly  care 
Because  my  boy,  like  hers,  is  fair  ? 
And  does  God  mock  our  yearnings  so  ? 
Nay  !  't  is  a  fiendish  lie,  I  know ! 
God  smiles  on  earth,  though  throned  above ; 
And  what  is  heaven  but  purer  love  ? 
We  three,  together,  glad  will  go,  — 
Bertrand  and  I  and  Angelo  ! 


THE   GYPSY. 

NAY  !  tell  us  not  of  curtained  walls ! 

To  us  they  were  a  prison ; 
Better  than  all  your  stately  halls, 
Is  the  heath  where  the  blessed  sunlight  falls, 
And  the  free  wind  blows,  and  the  plover  calls 

When  the  mellow  moon  has  risen. 
And  the  sod,  for  us,  is  a  nobler  bed, 
Than  the  couch  with  richest  damask  spread, 
For  ours  are  the  stars  and  the  mystic  ties 
That  link  the  earth  to  the  rolling  skies. 

Do  you  see  that  girl  with  the  glance  of  fire  ? 

Woe  to  the  man  that  dares  her  ire  ! 

She  knows  what  planet  has  power  to  harm ; 

What  beam  of  the  moon  will  fall  as  balm  ; 

And  the  hour  when  the  stormy  Pleiades  rise, 

And  the  star  of  love  gives  bliss  for  sighs  ; 

And  over  your  palm,  with  secret  lore, 

She  '11  read  what  the  dark  years  have  in  store. 

Keep  your  wealth  and  your  gilded  bowers  ! 

The  glory  of  field  and  sky  is  ours  ; 

And  all  the  spirits  of  earth  and  air 

Follow  our  bidding,  foul  or  fair. 


BALTA. 

(  GYPST-SONG  OF  TRANSYLVANIA.  ) 

BRAVE  Balta  clasped  me  to  his  breast 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky  ;  — 
"  Now  go  I  east  or  go  I  west, 

I  '11  love  thee  till  I  die  !  " 
"  O  wander  east  or  wander  west, 

My  Balta,"  soft  I  sighed, 
"  By  moon  and  stars  I  '11  love  thee  best, 

And  wait  to  be  thy  bride  !  " 

Thrice  fell  the  snows  on  field  and  tent, 

And  weary  was  my  life,  — 
When  proud  a  Prince  rode  up,  and  bent, 

And  wooed  me  for  his  wife. 
"  Nay,  sir,  I  must  be  Balta's  bride  ; 

To  him  my  heart  I  gave  ;  "  — 
He  sprang  to  earth  ;  his  cloak  flung  wide  ; 

And  lo !  't  was  Balta  brave  ! 


RUSSIA. 

(1890.) 

WHERE  is  the  dauntless  spirit 

Of  the  glorious  Slavs  of  old  ?  — 
The  swift  resolve,  the  swifter  hand, 

The  force  no  king  controlled  ? 
O  for  one  peal  of  the  Veche  bell ! 
One  hour  of  the  potent  surge  and  swell 
When  they  hailed  with  scorn  a  recreant  chief  : 
"  Prince  !  we  salute  thee  !  "  —  and  he  fell 

From  his  high  estate,  at  their  bidding  bold, 
As  falls  to  earth  a  light-hung  leaf 

When  the  north  wind  roars  adown  the  wold  ! 
O  for  the  Cossacks'  burning  zeal, 

On  the  boundless  plain,  by  the  flowing  river, 
When  all  for  freedom  they  defied, 

And  with  their  latest  heart-beat  cried, 

"  May  the  Russian  Land  rejoice  forever  !  " 

What !   shall  a  hundred  millions 

Be  dumb  at  the  word  of  one  ? 
The  light  of  their  day  be  darkened 

While  above  them  shines  the  sun  ? 
Shall  the  flower  of  the  Russian  people, 

The  tender,  lofty  souls, 


182  EUSSIA. 

Through  exile,  torture,  madness, 

But  swell  the  martyrs'  rolls  ?  — 
Rise  in  your  ancient  grandeur, 

O  race  of  love  and  firer 
And  flame  till  ice  and  rock  shall  melt 

In  the  blast  of  your  holy  ire ! 
Till  the  very  stars  shall  fight  for  you, 

And  all  the  winds  that  blow 
Shall  swell  your  cry  for  Liberty, 

Shall  chant  your  speechless  woe  ! 
Let  the  sword  rest  in  its  scabbard  ;  — 

Your  wrongs  shall  be  the  blade 
To  cleave  the  bonds  that  have  bound  you, 

And  win  the  world  to  aid. 
In  the  might  of  Slavic  manhood, 

In  the  power  of  God  on  high, 
Claim  and  defend  your  birthright !  — 

And  the  despot's  rule  shall  die, 


ALEXANDER  II.  OF  RUSSIA. 

(1861.) 

HAIL  to  the  Czar  Alexander  ! 

Hail  to  the  Prince  of  the  Free ! 
Not  to  the  proud  would  he  pander  ; 
Truer  and  nobler  and  grander 

Than  Macedon's  hero,  is  he  — 
Alexander ! 

Listen  !  how  melodies  rural 

Freight  every  wind  with  his  praise  ! 
Give  him  the  golden  crown  mural !  — 
First  from  the  seas  to  the  Oural 
Liberty's  flag  to  upraise  — 
Alexander ! 

Greatest  is  not  the  Czar  Peter ; 

(  Sound  it,  O  Bells,  from  each  steeple !  ) 
No,  for  his  fame  will  be  fleeter  ; 
No,  for  the  homage  is  sweeter 

Paid  to  the  Czar  of  the  People  — 
Alexander ! 


184        ALEX  AN  DEE  II.  OF  RUSSIA. 

Ah !  when  the  Muscovite  story 

Ages  to  ages  shall  tell, 
Still  will  the  patriarchs  hoary 
Cry,  "  'T  was  the  Czar  of  our  glory, 

He  who  loved  Russians  so  well  — 
Alexander ! " 

God  be  his  shield  and  defender  ! 

Keep  him  from  sorrow  afar  ! 
Then,  when  his  life  he  shall  render, 
Fold  in  eternity's  splendor 

Russia's  redeemer  —  the  Czar 
Alexander ! 


ST.   PETERSBURG. 

SEE  !     From  the  Finland  marshes  there 
'  T  is  grand  St.  Isaac's  rears  in  air, 

Column  on  column,  that  shining  dome ! 
And,  just  beyond  its  glorious  swell, 
'T  is  the  slender  spire  of  the  Citadel 
Where  great  Czar  Peter  slumbers  well 

All  by  the  Neva's  flood  and  foam,  — 
That  lifts  its  cross  till  the  golden  bars 
Gleam  and  burn  with  the  midnight  stars  ! 

Taller  than  Luxor's  shafts,  and  grander, 
Looms  the  Pillar  of  Alexander 

Over  the  Palace  that  fronts  the  Square ; 
And  out  where  the  mist  o'er  Okhta  flies, 
The  towers  of  the  Nevski  Cloister  rise, 
Shrine  of  the  saint  who,  deathless,  lies 

Sealed  in  silver  and  jewels  rare  ; 
And  Smolnoi's  wealth  of  spangled  blue 
Beams  all  the  dusky  distance  through. 


MOSCOW. 

ACROSS  the  steppe  we  journeyed, 

The  brown,  fir-darkened  plain 
That  rolls  to  east  and  rolls  to  west, 

Broad  as  the  billowy  main  ; 
When  lo  !  a  sudden  splendor 

Came  shimmering  through  the  air, 
As  if  the  clouds  should  melt  and  leave 

The  heights  of  heaven  bare,  — 
A  maze  of  rainbow  domes  and  spires 

Full  glorious  on  the  sky, 
With  wafted  chimes  from  many  a  tower 

As  the  south  wind  went  by, 
And  a  thousand  crosses  lightly  hung 

That  shone  like  morning  stars  — 
'T  was  the  Kremlin  wall !  't  was  Moscow 

The  jewel  of  the  Czars  ! 


MOSCOW  BELLS. 

THAT  distant  chime  !     As  soft  it  swells, 

What  memories  o'er  me  steal ! 
Again  I  hear  the  Moscow  bells 

Across  the  moorland  peal ! 
The  bells  that  rock  the  Kremlin  tower 

Like  a  strong  wind,  to  and  fro,  — 
Silver-sweet  in  its  topmost  bower, 

And  the  thunder's  boom  below. 

They  say  that  oft  at  Easter  dawn 

When  all  the  world  is  fair, 
God's  angels  out  of  heaven  are  drawn 

To  list  the  music  there. 
And  while  the  rose-clouds  with  the  breeze 

Drift  onward,  —  like  a  dream, 
High  in  the  ether's  pearly  seas 

Their  radiant  faces  gleam. 

O  when  some  Merlin  with  his  spells 

A  new  delight  would  bring, 
Say  :  I  will  hear  the  Moscow  bells 

Across  the  moorland  ring ! 
The  bells  that  rock  the  Kremlin  tower 

Like  a  strong  wind,  to  and  fro,  — 
Silver-sweet  in  its  topmost  bower, 

And  the  thunder's  boom  below  ! 


MOSCOW  AT  EVENING. 

O  THE  splendor  of  the  city, 

When  the  sun  is  in  the  west ! 
Ruddy  gold  on  spire  and  belfry, 

Gold  on  Moskwa's  placid  breast ; 
Till  the  twilight,  soft  and  sombre, 

Falls  on  wall  and  street  and  square, 
And  the  domes  and  towers,  in  shadow, 

Stand  like  silent  monks  at  prayer. 

JT  is  the  hour  for  dreams  and  phantoms ; 

Meet  me  by  the  Sacred  Gate  ! 
Ah,  what  ghostly  forms  may  enter 

When  the  night  is  wearing  late  ! 
Czars  may  pass  in  haughty  penance ; 

Khans  bewail  their  Kremlin  gone ; 
Boris,  Timur,  haunt  the  fortress 

Till  the  east  is  pale  with  dawn. 


THE  SHRINES  OF  MOSCOW. 

ABOVE  each  gate  a  blessed  Saint 

Asks  favor  of  the  skies, 
And  the  hosts  of  the  foe  do  fail  and  faint 

At  the  gleam  of  their  watchful  eyes  ; 
And  Pole,  and  Tartar,  and  haughty  Gaul, 
Flee,  dismayed,  from  the  Kremlin  wall. 

Here  lie  our  ancient  Czars,  asleep,  — 

Ivan  and  Feodor,  — 
While  loving  angels  round  them  keep 

Sweet  peace  forevermore  ! 
Only,  when  Easter  bells  ring  loud, 
They  sign  the  cross  beneath  the  shroud. 

O  Troitsa's  altar  is  divine,  — 

St.  Sergius !  hear  our  prayers  !  — 

And  Kieff,  Olga's  lofty  shrine, 
The  name  of  "  The  Holy  "  bears ; 

But  Moscow  blends  all  rays  in  one  — 

They  are  the  stars,  and  she  the  sun ! 


TROITSA  MONASTERY. 

O  SACRED  Troitsa  !  when  the  skies 

Of  morn  are  blue,  I  lift  my  eyes 

To  see  again,  in  azure  air, 

Thy  starry  domes  and  turrets  fair, 

And  to  hear  from  thy  gray  cathedral  walls 

The  chanted  hymn  as  it  swells  and  falls. 

Then  with  the  pilgrim  train  I  wait, 

And  enter,  glad,  thy  wide-flung  gate, 

To  drink  of  St.  Sergius'  holy  well 

That  heals  the  griefs  no  soul  may  tell ; 

Or  kneel  with  them  at  his  wondrous  shrine,  — 

His  staff  and  his  simple  robe  beside,  — 
And  trace  on  my  breast  the  mystic  sign, 

And  pray  for  the  peace  of  the  glorified  ! 

Then  fade  thy  towers  ;  the  music  dies  ; 
Above  me  are  my  native  skies, 
Blue  and  clear  in  the  August  morn, 
Over  the  pines  and  the  rustling  corn  ; 
With  a  song  from  brook  and  breeze  and  bird 
Sweet  as  the  hymn  in  thy  cloisters  heard,  — 
And  I  know  the  fields  are  a  shrine  as  fair, 
For  the  Lord  of  the  saints  is  here,  as  there  ! 


THE  FAIR  OF  NIJNI  NOVGOROD. 

Now,  by  the  Tower  of  Babel ! 

Was  ever  such  a  crowd  ? 
Here  Turks  and  Jews  and  Gypsies, 

There  Persians  haughty-browed ; 
With  silken-robed  Celestials, 

And  Frenchmen  from  the  Seine, 
And  Khivans  and  Bokhariotes  — 

Heirs  of  the  Oxus  plain. 

Here  stalk  Siberian  hunters  ; 

There  tents  a  Kirghiz  clan 
By  mournful-eyed  Armenians 

From  wave-girt  Astrakhan ; 
And  Russ  and  Pole  and  Tartar, 

And  mounted  Cossack  proud  — 
Now,  by  the  Tower  of  Babel! 

Was  ever  such  a  crowd  ? 


ASIA  AT  NIJNI. 

GIVE  me  that  melon  of  Khiva, 

Luscious  and  round  and  fair  !  — 
Its  mate,  for  the  Lord  of  China, 

Across  the  steppes  they  bear ; 
And  place  on  the  tray  beside  it, 

Worthy  of  sheikh  or  khan, 
Peaches  that  grew  in  the  gardens 

Of  the  golden  Zerefshan. 

And  a  cup  of  Flowery  Pekoe  — 

Tea  of  the  mandarins  — 
Gathered  in  dewy  morning, 

Just  when  the  spring  begins. 
(Keep  for  the  peasant  and  Tartar, 

The  bowls  of  the  dark  Bohea 
Plucked  when  the  heats  of  summer 

With  rank  leaves  load  the  tree.) 

Ah,  what  ravishing  flavors  ! 

Not  the  wine  of  the  Rhine, 
Not  of  Tokay,  nor  the  nectar 

Won  from  the  Cyprian  vine, 
Nor  Sicily's  oranges  rarest, 

Nor  sweetest  figs  of  Dalmatia, 
Rival  the  Flowery  Pekoe 

And  the  spicy  melons  of  Asia. 


KAZAN. 

KAZAN  looks  down  from  the  Volga  wall, 

Bright  in  the  darkest  weather ; 
And  the  Christian  chime  and  the  Moslem  call 

Sound  from  her  towers  together. 

Shrine  of  the  Golden  Horde  was  she ; 

Boast  of  the  proud  Bokhara  ; 
And  her  fame  was  wafted  over  the  sea, 

And  sung  in  the  far  Sahara. 

Woe  to  her  Faith  and  her  turbaned  Lord  : 
The  Cross  and  the  Russ  were  stronger ; 

O 

Her  splendors  now  are  the  Czar's  reward, 
And  her  Khans  are  kings  no  longer ! 

Yet  still  she  looks  from  the  Volga  wall, 

Bright  in  the  darkest  weather  ; 
And  the  Christian  chime  and  the  Moslem  call 

Sound  from  her  towers  together. 


THE  LOWER  VOLGA. 

Am>  still  we  kept  the  Volga's  tide, 
The  Volga  rolling  gray  and  wide  ; 
While  the  gulls  of  the  Caspian  over  it  flew, 

A  flash  of  silver  and  jet  in  the  sun, 
And,  chill  though  the  blast  from  the  Oural  blew, 

Circled  and  hovered  till  day  was  done. 

Faint,  in  the  lulls  of  the  wind,  from  shore 

Came  the  lowing  of  herds  that  roved  the  plain ; 
And  the  bells  rang  over  the  water's  roar, 

Calling  the  hamlet  to  holy  fane. 
And  slowly  the  fishers  of  Astrakhan 

Stemmed  the  current  with  laden  keel ; 
While  the  barges  the  Kama  peasants  man, 
And  the  barks  of  the  Oka,  past  them  ran, 

Heaped  with  iron  and  wheat  and  steel ; 
And  as  far  as  the  wind  could  wander  free, 

On  either  side  was  the  grassy  sea. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  VOLGA. 

FAREWELL,  O  River  of  the  Plain, 

O  River  of  the  Sea  ! 
Fain  would  I  follow  to  the  main 

Thy  current  strong  and  free  ; 
And  find,  beyond  thy  reedy  islands, 
The  sullen  Caspian's  ocean  silence. 

The  Kalmuck  girls,  with  braided  hair 

And  cap  of  scarlet  crown, 
Beside  their  tents,  in  evening  fair, 

Will  watch  thy  tide  go  down  ; 
And  songs  of  the  steppe  and  its  rovers  sing, 
Their  swarthy  lovers  listening. 

And  Kirghis,  dark  with  desert  suns, 

Will  halt  beside  thy  brink, 
While  the  steed,  the  brackish  spring  that  shuns, 

Stoops  low,  thy  wave  to  drink  ; 
Then,  fresh  and  fleet  as  at  dawn  of  day, 
Over  the  plain  they  '11  haste  away. 

Farewell.     I  feel  the  west  wind  blow ; 
The  Asian  dream  is  o'er  ; 


196        FAREWELL  TO  THE  VOLGA. 

And  Europe 's  in  the  sunset  glow, 

That  gilds  thy  sandy  shore. 
I  go  where  other  streams  will  shine, 
But  none  so  lone,  so  grand  as  thine. 


THE  RIVER  DON. 

O  PLACID  Don  !     I  see  thee  flow 
With  shallow,  snowy-sanded  stream, 

While  light  the  steppe-winds  o'er  thee  blow, 
And  cranes  and  gray-winged  herons  dream 

Safe  as  beside  some  dark  lagoon  — 

Along  thy  banks  in  breezeless  noon. 

The  Cossack  wanders  from  thy  shore, 

But  never  finds  a  wave  so  fair  ; 
Thy  summer  lapse,  thy  winter  roar, 

Still  greet  him  in  remotest  air ; 
And  death  is  sweet  if  he  may  lie, 
With  cross  above,  thy  waters  by. 


THE  COSSACK. 

THE   Cossack !    the   Cossack !    his   steed   is   his 

throne ; 

On  the  steppe  and  the  desert  his  glory  is  known  ; 
For  he  sweeps  like  the  wind  from  the  camp  to 

the  fray, 

And  woe  to  the  foe  and  the  flying  that  day ! 
"  False  pagan  !  "  he  cries,  "  are  you  slave  —  are 

you  Shah  — 
Now   die   by   this   lance,    or   take   oath   to   the 

Czar !  " 

The  Cossack  !  the  Cossack  !  a  flame  of  the  south 

Is  the  glance  of  his  eye,  is  the  word  of  his 
mouth, 

For  the  steed  that  he  rides,  for  the  saint  he 
implores, 

And,  fairer  and  dearer,  the  girl  he  adores. 

The  maiden's  fond  lover  —  the  Czar's  faithful 
warder  — 

Ho!  drink  to  the  Cossack,  from  border  to  bor 
der! 


THE  CARPATHIANS. 

(Seen  from  the  Bukovina.) 

O  THE  glorious  purple  line 

Of  the  mountains  lifted  along  the  west ! 
Bright,  in  the  sun,  their  summits  shine ; 

Dark,  in  the  shade,  their  valleys  rest. 
Cossack  and  Tartar  may  hold  the  plains, 

And  the  rivers  that  creep  to  a  tideless  sea  ;  — 
Mine  be  the  heights  where  the  eagle  reigns, 

And  cataracts  thunder,  and  winds  blow  free  ! 

Not  for  the  steppe,  with  its  desert  sheen, 

From  Austria's  border  to  China's  wall, 
Would  I  give  the  upland  pasture's  green, 

The  beech-tree's  shadow,  the  brooklet's  fall. 
Vanish,  O  weary,  mournful  Level ! 

Welcome,  O  Wind  my  brow  that  fans ! 
In  the  splendor  of  earth  again  I  revel, 

Greeting  the  purple  Carpathians ! 


THE  PLAINS  OF  BESSARABIA. 

HEBE  the  white  cattle  graze  that  feed 

The  Austrian  Kaiser's  towns, 
Close-watched  by  dogs  alert  to  leap 

If  but  the  herder  frowns,  — 
Close-watched  when,  at  the  sunset  hour, 

With  bellowings  deep  and  loud, 
To  quench  their  thirst  in  the  cooling  stream, 

Wild-eyed  and  fierce  they  crowd. 
And  here  the  shepherd  tends  his  flock 

While  the  long  days  go  by  — 
Now  couched  beside  them  in  the  plain, 

Now  on  the  khourgans  high ;  — 
The  plover  calls  across  the  steppe  ; 

The  stork,  with  snowy  breast, 
Flies  northward  to  the  kindly  roof 

That  holds  her  summer  nest ; 
But  nothing  stirs  his  drowsy  blood 

Unless  a  lamb  should  stray,  — 
Then  woe  to  wolf  or  Gypsy  thief 

That  lurks  beside  the  way. 


BAIDAR  GATE.18 

0  BAIDAR  Gate  !  lone  Baidar  Gate ! 
What  glories  by  thy  portals  wait !  — 
Beyond  the  pines,  wide-boughed  and  old, 
Cliffs  such  as  climb  in  Alpine  hold ; 
Above,  the  blue  Crimean  sky 

Where,  in  still  noons,  the  eagles  fly, 
And  poise  as  if  't  were  bliss  to  be 
Becalmed  upon  that  azure  sea ! 
Below,  the  Euxine  with  its  sails 
Fanned  by  the  cool  Caucasian  gales ; 
And,  all  between,  the  glen,  the  glade, 
Where  Tartar  girls  their  tresses  braid, 
And  slopes  where  silver  streamlets  run, 
And  grapes  hang,  purple,  in  the  sun. 

And  when,  within  the  wood-fire's  glow, 
Fond  friends  tell  tales  of  long-ago, 
And  each  recalls  some  lovely  scene 
By  mountain  pass  or  meadow  green,  — 
If  they  shall  turn  and  ask  of  me, 
The  rarest  glimpse  of  earth  and  sea, 

1  '11  say,  with  memory's  joy  elate, 

"  'T  is  Baidar  Gate  !  't  is  Baidar  Gate ! " 


THE  CRIMEAN  COAST  AND  ALUPKA.14 

CROSS  but  this  rocky  height,  and  lo  ! 

A  valley  rare  as  Rasselas 

Found  in  the  Abyssinian  pass, 
With  warmth  and  beauty  all  aglow  ! 
Where  for  Tartar  mosque  and  royal  villa 
Is  many  a  shining  porphyry  pillar, 
With  marbles  for  arch  and  floor  and  stair 
Veined  with  vermilion  or  amber-fair  ; 
And  fountains  fed  by  the  rills  that  fall 
Cool  and  clear  from  the  mountain  wall. 
Where  the  olive  and  orange  and  nectarine 
Ripen  the  sea-side  gardens  in, 
And  the  winds  are  sweet  as  the  breeze  that  sighs 
Over  the  meadows  of  Paradise  !  — 
Yea,  and  the  Blessed  there  might  crave 
Alupka,  pride  of  the  cliff  and  wave ! 


THE    ENGLISH  CEMETERY  AT 
SEVASTOPOL. 

OVER  the  Dead  is  a  radiant  sky, 

And   a   light  wind   blows   from   the  Vale   of 

Baidar ; 
But  what  care  they  as  they  mutely  lie  — 

Column  and  captain,  steed  and  rider  ? 

Tulips  and  poppies  can  never  bloom 

Dear  to  their  slumber  as  English  daisies  ; 

Nor  the  nightingale's  warble  in  bowery  gloom 
Atone  for  the  skylark's  rapturous  mazes. 

Ghostly  cities  and  nameless  graves  — 
This  is  the  sum  of  the  battle's  story  ! 

And  the  wind  of  Baidar  the  brown  grass  waves, 
And  sighs  above  them,  "  Alas  for  Glory  !  " 


FREDERICK  III.   OF  GERMANY. 

NOT  the  bold  Brandenburg,  at  Prussia's  birth  ; 
Nor  yet  Great  Frederick  when  his  fields  were 

won, 
And   her  domain  stretched  wide  beneath  the 

sun; 

Nor  William  whose  Sedan  aroused  the  earth. 
Was  hero,  conqueror,  like  the  king  whose  worth 
And  woe  subdued  the  world  beside  his  bier. 
Serene  he  walked  with  death  through  year  and 

year 
Slow-measured ;  braving  torture's  deeps  in  dearth 

Of  hope  —  the  faithful,  steadfast,  lofty  soul ! 
Ah,  chant  no  dirge  for  him,  but  joyful  paean  ! 
While   Baltic   laves   its    borders,  Rhine   doth 

roll, 

No  truer  life  will  seek  the  empyrean 
Than  his  whose   fame   nor  realm   nor   age   can 

span  — 
The  manliest  Emperor,  the  imperial  man  ! 


ROBERT  BURNS. 

(Written  for  the  Bums  Centennial,  Jan.  25,  1859,  and  re 
printed  at  the  request  of  friends  in  Scotland.) 

WHEN  the  frost  had  killed  the  daisies 

And  the  hills  were  white  with  snow, 
Robert  Burns  was  born  in  Ayrshire 

Just  a  hundred  years  ago. 
Cold  about  the  cottage  ingle 

When  the  cloudy  night  fell  down, 
Blew  the  wind  fpom  off  the  moorlands 

Where  the  heath  was  crisp  and  brown  ; 
But  the  boy  was  summer's  darling, 

Made  of  music,  love,  and  fire, 
And  the  winter  could  not  harm  him, 

Let  it  wreak  its  utmost  ire. 
Now  a  hundred  years  are  numbered, 

Yet  we  hail  the  happy  morn 
When,  amid  the  Ayrshire  snow-wreaths, 

Robert  Burns,  the  man,  was  born ! 
And  King  of  Hearts  he  reigns  to-day, 

While  the  noble  throng  around  him, 
God  be  praised  that  a  man  has  sway 

And  the  wide  world's  love  has  crowned  him  ! 


206  EOBEET  BUBNS. 

With  his  head  upon  her  bosom 

In  the  firelight's  ruddy  glow, 
Plaintive  songs  his  mother  sang  him,  — 

Airs  of  Scotland  long  ago ; 
And  he  thrilled  at  tales  of  heroes, 

Or  of  ghosts  and  warlocks  grim, 
Till  he  felt  a  chilly  horror 

Creeping  over  every  limb, 
And  he  shuddered  as  the  tempest 

Shook  the  window  with  its  moan, 
Lest  the  sobbing  and  the  sighing 

Were  a  murdered  victim's  groan ;  — 
Now  his  name  is  linked  with  story  ; 

Now  his  life  is  set  to  song ; 
All  that  Scotland  has  of  glory 

Floats  with  Robert  Burns  along  ! 

So  the  boy  grew  older,  loving 

Every  wild  and  winsome  thing 
From  the  rush  of  stormy  waters 

To  the  lark  upon  the  wing ; 
He  a  lark,  too,  warbling  upward 

From  the  heather's  purple  guise, 
Finding  sweetest  inspiration 

In  the  light  of  woman's  eyes. 
Dante  shrined  his  Beatrice, 

Laura  lives  in  Petrarch's  rhyme,  — 
Tenderer  praise  have  Scottish  maidens 

Down  through  all  the  coming  time  ! 


ROBERT  BURNS.  207 

Every  woman  loves  the  singer 
From  the  peasant  to  the  queen, 

For  the  sake  of  "  Highland  Mary," 
For  the  sake  of  "  Bonny  Jean." 

How  he  longed  for  better  knowledge, 

How  he  yearned  for  noble  fame, 
He,  the  ploughman,  the  unlettered, 

Born  to  bear  a  humble  name  ;  — 
(O  my  Poet !  thou  didst  cast  it 

In  the  furrow  of  the  years 
That  "  A  man  's  a  man  for  a'  that," 

Thou  didst  water  it  with  tears  ; 
Now  the  harvest  time  is  coming, 

Now  the  fields  are  white  with  grain, 
Thou,  the  sower,  art  the  reaper, 

Binding  sheaves  on  every  plain  !) 
Ah !  the  human  soul  is  deeper 

Than  the  lore  he  never  knew, 
So  the  lays  he  sung  shall  echo 

All  the  listening  ages  through. 

Tell  us  not  of  mighty  princes 

Ruling  proud  o'er  shores  and  seas ; 
Robert  Burns  has  kingdom  grander 

Than  the  stateliest  of  these  ! 
Theirs  by  mountain  chains  is  bounded 

Or  a  river's  winding  line  ; 
His  sweeps  broad  from  tropic  palm-trees 

To  the  farthest  polar  pine  ! 


208  ROBERT  BURNS. 

Scotland  (as  a  gem  she  wears  it, ) 

Dowered  with  song  his  lowly  birth, 
And  at  last  his  meed,  immortal, 

Is  the  homage  of  the  earth. 
Pardon  sins  he  sorrowed  over, 

He  who  light  on  daisies  trod ; 
Say,  "  He  was  of  man  the  lover,"  — 

Leave  him  to  the  love  of  God ! 

Slow,  but  surely,  comes  the  morning  ; 

Lo  !  the  east  is  flushed  with  rose, 
And  the  wind  so  chill  at  dawning 

With  a  warmer  current  blows. 
Truth  at  last  shall  be  the  victor 

Bearing  Freedom  in  its  van, 
While  the  watchword  on  its  banner 

Is  "  The  Brotherhood  of  Man," 
Thrones  and  crowns  and  jeweled  sceptres 

Like  forgotten  toys  will  be ; 
Only  he  who  loves  his  fellows 

Shall  the  heights  of  honor  see. 
Then,  recounting  lives  of  heroes, 

As  their  memory  backward  turns, 
Truest  Prophet,  sweetest  Singer, 

Men  shall  reckon  Robert  Burns ! 
And  King  of  Hearts  he  '11  reign  that  day 

While  the  noble  throng  around  him ;  — 
God  be  praised  that  a  man  has  sway 

And  the  wide  world's  love  has  crowned  him ! 


Hushed  are  the  bugles  that  called  to  the  strife  ; 
Silent  the  cannon  that  roared  with  the  fray  ; 
Gloom  is  forgotten  in  fulness  of  life  ; 
Freedom  and  Peace  are  our  treasures  to-day. 
Flag  of  our  Fathers  !  thy  stars  shall  not  wane  ! 
Glory  attend  thee  on  ocean  and  shore  ! 
Float  o'er  the  Free  from  the  Gulf  to  the  main  ; 
God  shall  defend  thee  till  states  are  no  more  1 


HEROES. 

THE  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 

Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines, 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep  sea-floor, 

Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  on  every  isle 

Fair  in  the  foam  of  ^Egean  seas, 
But,  out  of  their  rest,  no  charm  can  wile 

Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more 

By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls  ; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  stained  with  gore, 

Shouts,  "  O  ye  Gods  !  't  is  Hector  falls !  " 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 

But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow  away, 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  poppies  grow 

Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fought  that 
day. 

Mother  Earth  !     Are  the  Heroes  dead  ? 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 

All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 


212  HEROES. 

Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought 
Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 

Or  to  teach  as  gray-haired  Nestor  taught  ? 
Mother  Earth  !  Are  the  Heroes  gone  ? 

Gone  ?     In  a  grander  form  they  rise  ; 

Dead  ?     We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours  ; 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal  flow 
ers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 

'T  is  the  pulse  of  a  Hero's  heart  is  stirred  ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won 

There  are  the  Heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod, 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  gleam  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away ; 
For  the  Heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 


THE  VIRGINIA  SCAFFOLD. 

(JOHN  BKOWN,  DECEMBER  2,  1859.) 

REAR  on  high  the  scaffold-altar !   all  the  world 

will  turn  to  see 
How  a  man  has  dared  to  suffer  that  his  brothers 

may  be  free  !     .4rf  ~ 
Rear   it   on   some   hill-side   looking   North   and 

South  and  East  and  West, 
Where  the  wind  from  every  quarter  fresh  may 

blow  upon  his  breast, 
And  the  sun  look  down  unshaded  from  the  chill 

December  sky, 
Glad  to  shine  upon  the  hero  who  for  Freedom 

dared  to  die ! 

All  the  world  will  turn  to  see  him  ;  —  from  the 

pines  of  wave-washed  Maine 
To  the   golden   rivers   rolling   over   California's 

plain, 
And   from    clear    Superior's   waters,  where   the 

wild  swan  loves  to  sail, 
To  the  Gulf-lands,  summer-bosomed,  fanned  by 

ocean's  softest  gale,  — 
Every  heart  will  beat  the  faster  in  its  sorrow  or 

its  scorn, 


214  THE  VIRGINIA  SCAFFOLD. 

For  the  man  nor  courts  nor  prisons  can  annoy, 
another  morn  ! 

And  from  distant  climes  and  nations  men  shall 
Westward  gaze  and  say, 

"  He  who  perilled  all  for  Freedom  on  the  scaf 
fold  dies  to-day." 

Never  offering  was  richer,  nor  did  temple  fairer 
rise 

For  the  gods  serenely  smiling  from  the  blue 
Olympian  skies  ; 

Porphyry  or  granite  column  did  not  statelier 
cleave  the  air 

Than  the  posts  of  yonder  gallows  with  the  cross 
beam  waiting  there  ; 

And  the  victim,  wreathed  and  crowned,  not  for 
Dian  nor  for  Jove, 

But  for  Liberty  and  Manhood,  comes,  the  sacri 
fice  of  Love. 

They  may  hang  him  on  the  gibbet;   they  may 

raise  the  victor's  cry 
When  they  see  him  darkly  swinging  like  a  speck 

against  the  sky  ;  — 
Ah !  the  dying  of  a  hero  that  the  right  may  win 

its  way, 
Is  but  sowing  seed  for  harvest  in  a  warm  and 

mellow  May ! 

Now   his   story  shall   be  whispered  by  the  fire 
light's  evening  glow, 


THE  VIRGINIA  SCAFFOLD.          215 

And  in  fields  of  rice  and  cotton  when  the  hot 
noon  passes  slow, 

Till  his  name  shall  be  a  watchword  from  Mis 
souri  to  the  sea, 

And  his  planting  find  its  reaping  in  the  birthday 
of  the  Free ! 

Christ,  the  crucified,  attend  him !  Weak  and 
erring  though  he  be, 

In  his  measure  he  has  striven,  suffering  Lord !  to 
love  like  Thee ! 

Thou  the  vine,  —  thy  friends  the  branches,  —  is 
he  not  a  branch  of  thine, 

Though  some  dregs  from  earthly  vintage  have 
defiled  the  heavenly  wine  ? 

Now   his   tendrils   lie   unclasped,    bruised,  and 
prostrate  on  the  sod,  — 

Take  him  to  thine  upper  garden  where  the  hus 
bandman  is  God ! 


THE  WHITE   SLAVES. 

(1860.) 

THE  household  of  a  Roman,  in  Rome's  luxurious 

time, 
Was   filled  with   slaves   in   waiting   from   every 

conquered  clime. 
There  were  dreamy-eyed  Egyptians,  born  where 

the  lotus  blows, 

And  Syrians  won  from  Lebanon,  fair  as  its  sun 
set  glows, 
And  dancing-girls  from  Cadiz  to  while  the  hours 

with  song, 
And  dark  Numidian  beauties,  the  bronzes  of  the 

throng, 
And  light-haired   Scythians   that   pined  beneath 

his  palace  dome, 
And  stately  Carthaginian  maids  who  would  not 

smile  in  Rome ! 
These  were  their  master's  chattels,  and  humbly 

watched  his  ways, 
And  kept  his  house,  and  swelled  his  train,  and 

graced  his  festal  days ; 
But  should  the  princely  Roman  forget  his  high 

disdain, 


THE  WHITE  SLAVES.  217 

And  love  the  maid  of  Carthage  or  the  singing- 
girl  of  Spain, 

And  did  she  bear  him  children,  wait  till  his  death 
should  be, 

And  she  and  they,  by  Roman  Law,  were  made 
forever  free. 

Alas  !  our  later  lordlings  this  partial  justice  scorn  ; 
Their  hapless  children  find  a  night   that   never 

knows  a  morn  ! 
Slaves  while  their  sire  is  living,  and  slaves  when 

he  is  dead  ; 
No  law  denies  the  market  the  proud  Caucasian 

head  ; 
But,  hurried  to  the  auction,  the  youth  and  maid 

are  sold 
To  save  the  lands  for   legal  heirs  and  fill  their 

palms  with  gold  ; 
And  the  ampler  is  the  forehead  and  the  clearer 

is  the  skin, 
The   sharper  grows  the  contest  and  the   louder 

swells  the  din. 
In  Rome  the  sire's  patrician  blood  release  and 

honor  gave,  — 
With  us  it  only  firmer  clasps  the  fetters  of  the 

slave. 

And   evermore   they  cry  to  us  in  yearning  and 

despair, 
To   open   Freedom's  blessed  gate  and  let  them 

breathe  its  air  ! 


218  THE  WHITE  SLAVES. 

The  crescent  moon  has  hardly  filled  since  a  fair 

child  of  nine, 
Her  brow  just  tinted  by  the  land  where  warmer 

sunbeams  shine, 
With  her  small  mouth  all  tremulous,  and  eyelids 

wet  with  tears, 
And   cheek   now    crimson   and   now   pale   with 

changing  hopes  and  fears, 
Stood  by  the   church's   altar,  —  't  is   there   such 

prayers  belong,  — 
And  asked  her  life  and  womanhood  of  the  great, 

pitying  throng. 
Right   largely   did   they   answer,    and   listening 

angels  bore, 
Back  to  our  Lord  in  heaven  one  burning  story 

more.  .  .  . 

Up  the  volcano's  sloping  sides  the  oak  and  chest 
nut  climb, 

And  vineyards  smile  and  orchards  wave  as  floats 
the  vesper  chime. 

'T  is  just  before  the  thunder-burst,  but  the  wide 
heaven  is  still 

As  when  an  Indian-summer  noon  lies  sleeping  on 
the  hill ; 

A  roar  —  a  crash  —  a  fiery  hell  shot  through  the 
quivering  sky, 

And  oak  and  vine  and  orchard  bloom  in  black 
ened  ruin  lie  !  — 

Beneath  us  a  volcano  heaves  of  more  portentous 
name, 


THE  WHITE  SLAVES.  219 

And  millions,  waiting  wearily,  in  silence  feed  its 

flame ; 
No  smoke  rolls  from  the  crater,  nor  hot  winds 

round  it  blow, 
But,  deep  within  its  throbbing  heart,  the  fires  are 

all  aglow ; 
Woe  to  the  land  that  circles  it  when   the  wild 

moment  falls, 
And  the  long-smothered  fury  bursts  from  out  its 

prison  walls ! 

Now  let  us  wake  from  sleep  and  ease  before  the 
fatal  day, 

Nor  dream  such  grief  and  wrong  can  die  in 
voiceless  calm  away ; 

For  surely  as  the  mountain  stream  leaps  down 
to  find  the  sea, 

This  high-born  race,  through  love  or  hate,  must 
hasten  to  be  free. 

Oh,  louder,  grander,  till  the  words  like  trumpet- 
charges  call, 

Let  every  soul  cry,  "  Liberty !  "  and  "  Liberty  for 
all !  " 


HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY. 

BEFORE  ELECTION,  1860. 

THE  harvest  moon  is  waning, 

And  under  shielding  eaves, 
The  wheat  lies  threshed  and  garnered, 

Or  heaped  in  heavy  sheaves ; 
And  on  a  thousand  prairies, 

Like  forest  seas  outrolled, 
The  corn  stands  waiting  till  the  sun 

Shall  turn  its  green  to  gold. 

Along  the  fair  Ohio 

The  grapes  are  storing  wine,  — 
Catawba,  purple  Isabel, 

And  fragrant  Muscadine ; 
And  peach  and  apple,  ripe  and  red, 

Drop  when  the  light  winds  blow, 
Ripe  and  red  from  the  laden  boughs, 

Till  the  grass  is  heaped  below. 

O  never  'neath  Athenian  skies 

To  Ceres,  garland-crowned, 
When  scarlet  poppies  wreathed  with  wheat 

Her  shining  tresses  bound, 


HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY.  221 

Such  glad  thanksgivings  filled  the  air, 

Such  wild  and  tuneful  glee, 
As  we  could  bring  with  shout  and  song 

From  prairie-land  to  sea. 

But  let  us  put  the  sickle  by, 

Nor  mind  the  golden  sheaves, 
The  purpling  grapes  upon  the  vine, 

The  apples  'mid  the  leaves ; 
For  you  and  I  and  all  of  us 

Have  nobler  work  to-day, 
That  will  not  brook  a  backward  look, 

Nor  bear  a  feast's  delay. 

Before  the  yellow  corn  is  housed, 

Or  sealed  the  amber  wine, 
A  day  will  come  when  every  man, 

Upon  a  holier  shrine, 
Such  gift  may  lay  as  ne'er  was  borne 

From  mine  or  ocean  foam 
For  Delphi's  god,  or  greater  Jove 

Throned  on  the  hills  of  Rome. 

Not  India's  gems,  nor  Persia's  pearls, 

Nor  wood  of  rarest  trees, 
Nor  spices  from  the  Orient  isles 

Slow  wafted  o'er  the  seas. 
Our  shrine  is  Liberty's  ;  how  clear 

The  wind  around  it  sings ! 
Our  gift,  the  freeman's  priceless  vote  ; 

Our  God,  the  King  of  kings. 


222  HARVEST  AND  LIBERTY. 

Now  who  that  loves  his  wife,  or  child, 

Or  home,  or  brother  man, 
But  in  the  bright,  heroic  ranks, 

That  day  will  swell  the  van  ? 
And  strong  in  love  and  hope  and  faith, 

And  treading  firm  the  sod, 
Up  to  the  patriot's  altar  go, 

Beneath  the  eye  of  God. 

Young  men  !  around  whose  virgin  vote 

The  proudest  thoughts  entwine  ; 
Fathers  !  who  ne'er  again  may  see 

The  moon  of  harvest  shine  ; 
And  ye  who  know  the  heat  of  life, 

And  bear  its  toil  and  fray, 
O  bring  your  gift,  with  fervent  heart 

To  Freedom's  shrine  that  day ! 

Let  Freedom  thrill  the  poet's  song, 

And  be  the  statesman's  care, 
And  speak  from  sermon  and  from  hymn, 

And  yearn  in  every  prayer. 
Nay,  let  it  wail  in  ocean  winds, 

And  flash  from  out  the  sun, 
And  thunder  'mid  the  mountain  peaks, 

Until  the  Work  be  done  ! 


THE  STRIPES  AND  THE  STARS. 

APRIL,  1861. 

O   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER  !  the   Flag  of  our 

pride  ! 

Though  trampled  by  traitors  and  basely  defied, 
Fling  out  to  the  glad  winds  your  Red,  White,  and 

Blue, 
For  the  heart  of  the  North-land  is  beating  for 

you  ! 
And  her  strong  arm  is  nerving  to  strike  with  a 

will 
Till  the  foe  and  his  boastings  are  humbled  and 

still ! 
Here  's  welcome   to  wounding  and  combat  and 

scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes   and 

the  Stars  ! 

From  prairie,  O  ploughman,  speed  boldly  away  ! 
There  's  seed  to  be  sown  in  God's  furrows  to-day  ; 
Row  landward,  lone  fisher !  stout  woodman,  come 

home ! 

Let  smith  leave  his  anvil,  and  weaver  his  loom, 
And  hamlet  and  city  ring  loud  with  the  cry, 


224      THE  STRIPES  AND  THE  STARS. 

"  For  Country,  for  Freedom,  we  '11  fight  till  we 

die! 
Here  's  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and 

scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars  !  " 

Invincible  Banner !  the  Flag  of  the  Free ! 

Now  where   are   the   feet  that  would  falter   by 

thee? 

Or  the  hands  to  be  folded  till  triumph  is  won, 
And  the  eagle  looks  proud,  as  of  old,  to  the  sun  ? 
Give    tears    for    the    parting,  —  a   murmur    of 

prayer, 
Then   Forward !    the   fame   of   our  standard  to 

share ! 

With  welcome  to  wounding  and  combat  and  scars 
And  the  glory  of  death,  —  for  the  Stripes  and 

the  Stars ! 

O  God  of  our  Fathers  !  this  Banner  must  shine 
Where  battle  is  hottest,  in  warfare  divine  ! 
The  cannon  has  thundered,  the  bugle  has  blown, 
We  fear  not  the  summons  ;  we  fight  not  alone  ! 
Still  lead  us,  till  wide  from  the  Gulf  to  the  Sea 
The  land  shall  be  sacred  to  Freedom  and  Thee ! 
With   love,    for   oppression ;    with   blessing,   for 

scars  ; 
One  Country  —  one  Banner  —  the    Stripes   and 

the  Stars  ! 


COMPROMISE. 

INSCRIBED  TO  THE  CONGRESS  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 

ASSEMBLED  IN  EXTRA   SESSION,    JULY   4,    1861. 

COMPROMISE  !     Who  dares  to  speak  it 

On  the  nation's  hallowed  Day, 
When  the  air  with  thunder  echoes 

And  the  rocket-lightnings  play  ? 
Compromise  ?  while  on  the  dial 

Liberty  goes  ages  back, 
Scourged  and  bound,  for  our  denial, 

Firmer  to  the  despot's  rack  ? 

Compromise  ?  while  angels  tremble 

As  we  falter  in  the  race  ; 
Cringe  and  flatter  and  dissemble,  — 

We  !  who  hold  such  royal  place  ? 
Compromise  ?     It  suits  the  craven  ! 

Has  our  valor  stooped  so  low  ? 
Have  we  lost  our  ancient  ardor 

Face  to  face  to  meet  the  foe  ? 

No  !     By  all  the  May-Flower's  peril 

On  the  wild  and  wintry  sea  ; 
By  the  Pilgrim's  prayer  ascending, 

As  he  knelt  with  reverent  knee  ; 


226  COMPROMISE. 

By  that  fairest  day  of  summer 

When  the  true,  the  tried,  the  brave, 

Name  and  life  and  sacred  honor 
To  the  Roll  of  Freedom  gave  ; 

By  the  tears,  the  march,  the  battle, 

Where  the  noble,  fearless  died,  — 
Round  them  roar  of  hostile  cannon, 

Waiting  angels  at  their  side  ; 
By  our  children's  golden  future, 

By  our  fathers'  stainless  shield, 
That  which  God  and  heroes  gave  us, 

We  will  never,  never  yield ! 

Hear  it,  ye  who  sit  in  council ! 

We,  the  People,  tell  you  so  ! 
Will  you  venture  "  Yes  "  to  whisper 

When  the  millions  thunder  "  No  "  ? 
Will  you  sell  the  nation's  birthright, 

Heritage  of  toil  and  pain, 
While  a  cry  of  shame  and  vengeance 

Rings  from  Oregon  to  Maine  ? 

Compromise  ?     We  scorn  the  offer ! 

Separation  we  defy ! 
"  Firm  and  free  and  one  forever !  " 

Thus  the  People  make  reply. 
"  Death  to  every  form  of  Treason, 
In  the  Senate,  on  the  field,"  — 
While  the  chorus  swells  triumphant, 
"  We  will  never,  never  yield !  " 


WHO'S  READY? 

JULY,  1862. 

GOD  help  us  !     Who  's  ready  ?     There  's  danger 

before  ! 
Who  's  armed  and  who 's  mounted  ?     The  foe  's 

at  the  door ! 
The  smoke  of  his  cannon  hangs  black  o'er  the 

plain  ; 
His   shouts   ring    exultant  while    counting    our 

slain  ; 
And   northward   and   northward  he  presses  his 

line : 
Who 's  ready  ?     Oh,  forward  !  —  for  yours  and 

for  mine ! 

No  halting,  no  discord  ;  the  moments  are  Fates  ; 
To  shame  or  to  glory  they  open  the  gates  ; 
There  's  all  we  hold  dearest  to  lose  or  to  win  ; 
The  web  of  the  future  to-day  we  must  spin ; 
And  bid    the   hours   follow,  with   knell   or  with 

chime : 
Who 's  ready  ?     Oh,  forward !  —  while  yet  there 

is  time ! 


228  WHO  'S  READY? 

Lead  armies  or  councils  —  be  soldier  a-field  — 
Alike,  so  your  valor  is  Liberty's  shield  ! 
Alike,  so  you  strike  when  the  bugle-notes  call, 
For  country,  for  fireside,  for  Freedom  to  all ! 
The  blows  of  the  boldest  will  carry  the  day  : 
Who 's  ready  ?    Oh,  forward  !  —  there  's  death  in 
delay ! 

Earth's  noblest  are  praying,  at  home  and   o'er 

sea, 

"  God  keep  the  great  nation  united  and  free  !  " 
Her  tyrants  watch,  eager  to  leap  at  our  life, 
If  once  we  should  falter  or  faint  in  the  strife  ; 
Our  trust  is  unshaken,  though  legions  assail : 
Who 's  ready  ?     Oh,  forward !  —  and  Right  shall 

prevail ! 

Who 's   ready  ?     "  All  ready  !  "  undaunted   we 

cry, 

Our  hands  on  our  rifles,  our  hearts  beating  high ; 
"  No  traitor,  at  midnight,  shall  pierce  us  in  rest ; 
No  alien,  at  noonday,  shall  stab  us  abreast ; 
The  God  of  our  Fathers  is  guiding  us  still : 
All   Forward !    we  're    ready,   and  conquer  we 

will!" 


THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

DOWN  the  silent  Mississippi,  with  his  saintly  soul 

aflame, 
Twice  a  hundred  years  are  numbered  since  Mar- 

quette,  rejoicing,  came. 
All   the  winter   in   his   cabin   high   among   the 

Huron  snows, 
Gaining  lore  of  forest  hunters,  tracing  maps  by 

firelight  glows, 
Offering  to  the  Blessed  Virgin  morn  and  evening 

vow  and  prayer 
That   his   eyes   might   view   the   River   flowing 

southward  broad  and  fair,  — 
Wondrous  grace  !  upon  its  bosom,  glad  beneath 

the  summer  blue, 
Rapt  in  visions,  lost  in  praises,  lo !  he  guides  his 

light  canoe  ! 

Winding  'mid  the  wooded  islands  tangled  deep 

with  musky  vines  ; 
Flower-enchanted,  past  the  prairies  with  their 

dim  horizon  lines  ; 
By  the  fierce  Missouri  water,  dark  in  gorge  and 

cataract  wiles, 


230  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Down    from  nameless    regions   rolling,   restless, 

thrice  a  thousand  miles  ; 
Past   Ohio,  loveliest   river,  all   its    banks    aflush 

with  rose, 
While   the  red-bud  tints  the  woodlands  and  the 

lavish  laurel  blows ; 
By   the    belts    of    odorous    cedar,    through    the 

cypress-swamps  below, 
Till   he   greets   its  wider   grandeur,  knows   the 

secret  of  its  flow  ; 
Fainting  then  from  summer  fervors,  homeward 

turns  in  sacred  awe, 

Dying  humbly  with  his  Hurons  by  their  wind 
swept  Mackinaw. 

Then  La  Salle,  impatient,  fearless,  took  the  Fa 
ther's  idle  oar, 

Longing  for  the  larger  splendor,  listening  for  the 
ocean  roar ! 

Under  Bluffs  that  seek  the  beauty  of  the  upper 
shores  to  win  ; 

Past  the  Ar'kansas,  slow-drifting  with  its  moun 
tain  tribute  in  ; 

By  the  bend  where  sad  De  Soto,  with  his  high 
Castilian  pride, 

Lulled  forever  and  lamented,  sleeps,  a  king, 
beneath  the  tide  ; 

Through  the  forests,  perfume  -  haunted,  weird! 
moss  waving  to  and  fro,  — 

There  the  cottonwood  towers  stately,  and  the 
tall  magnolias  blow,  — 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  231 

Past   the    bayous,  still   and   sombre,  where   the 

alligator  swims, 
And  at  noonday,  on    the  shore,  the  paroquet  his 

plumage  trims ; 
Gliding  down  by  green  savannas  —  ho  !  the  wind 

blows  cool  and  free  ! 
Bright,  beyond,  the  Gulf  is  gleaming  —  lo !    the 

River  finds  the  Sea  ! 
Out  of  mystery,  out  of  silence,  now  the  mighty 

stream  is  one,  — 
Rear  the  cross,  O  joyful  Boatman  !  chant  sweet 

hymns  at  set  of  sun  ! 

Ah,    La   Salle,   Marquette,   De   Soto !   boatmen 

bold  in  song  and  story, 
Lighting  up  the  river  romance  there   are   later 

deeds  of  glory. 
Lonely  was  the  stream,  the  forest,  as  ye  dropped, 

with  measured  calm, 
Down  to  golden    zones   of  summer  through  the 

fresh  world's  breeze  and  balm  ;  — 
But  the  Indian,  silent -gazing,  half   in  welcome, 

half  in  fear ; 
On   the   grassy  plains   the   bison,  in   the   dewy 

glades  the  deer ; 
Not  a  sound  to  break  the  stillness  save  the  song 

of  woodland  bird, 
Or  the  panther's  cry  at  evening  from  the  cypress 

thickets  heard ; 
Or  the  eagle's  scream,  as  northward  to  tis  cooler 

lakes  he  flew, 


232  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Fainter  ringing  down  the  valley  till  he  faded  in 

the  blue. 
Twice  a  hundred  years  are  numbered,  and  the 

Red  man  roams  no  more 
Through  the  green  aisles  of  the  forest,  —  by  the 

reedy,  open  shore  ; 
With   the   startled   deer  and  bison  he  has  fled 

before  the  bands 
That  your  fleet  canoes  have  followed  from  the 

wondering  father-lands. 
Now  a  people  build  its  borders ;  now  the  great 

fleets  hasten  down 
With  the  sheaves   of   many  a   prairie,  with   the 

wealth  of  many  a  town  ; 
Decks   piled   high   from  tropic   harvest    in    the 

warmer  realms  below,  — 
Rice  and   sugar   from   the   cane-fields,  and   the 

cotton's  downy  snow ; 
Laden  sea-craft  inland  sailing,  rafts  that  find  the 

current's  fall, 
Smoke  of  steamer,  call  of  pilot,  from  the  Gulf  to 

high  St.  Paul ; 
And  the  thronged,  exultant  River  is  a  nation's 

heart,  whose  hands 
Far   to   eastward,   far   to   westward,    touch   the 

shining  ocean  sands. 

Will  ye  trust  the  strange  recital,  —  tale  that  only 

fiend  should  tell  ? 
When  the  nation's  morn  was  fairest,  black  the 

night  of  Treason  fell ! 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  233 

Traitors   claiming   all   the   South-land,  and   the 

River  once  so  free, 
Under  forts  and  frowning   ridges,  rolling,  alien, 

to  the  sea ! 
Freedom's  banner  madly  trampled,  and  the  motto 

flaunted  high, 
"  On    the    Slave   we    found    Dominion,  —  who 

shall  dare  our  right  deny  ?  " 

God  of  Justice  !  how  our  rally  rung  through  all 

the  startled  air ! 
Million-voiced,  the   North   made   answer,  rising 

calm  and  strong  from  prayer  ! 
Caught  the  rifle,  clasped  the  sabre,  put  the  pen, 

the  ploughshare  by,  — 
Fathers,  brothers,  surging  Southward  when  they 

heard  the  gathering  cry, 
Till,  from   green    Dakota  uplands  to  the  rocky 

isles  of  Maine, 
Every  hamlet,  every  city,  lent  its  bravest  to  the 

train; 
Freedom's   flag   above    them  waving,  freedom's 

songs  triumphant  sung, 
Ne'er,  I  ween,  to  such  an  army,  foe  the  gage  of 

battle  flung. 

Then  they  saw  the  captive  River,  and  from  every 

port  and  bay 
Summoned   straight   each   armed  vessel   that  at 

anchor  watching  lay  ;  — 


234  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

From  Pacific  ;  from  the  islands  where  the  spice- 
winds  softly  blow  ; 

Off  the  sultry  Afric  border ;  shores  where  Eu 
rope's  olives  grow. 

All  too  few ;  —  in  hillside  pastures  'neath  the  axe 
the  stout  oaks  reel, 

Pines  of  Saginaw  and  Saco  hewn  for  masts  to 
meet  the  keel. 

Night  and  day  the  roaring  forges  shape  the  an 
chor,  weld  the  chain, 

Round  the  ball,  and  cast  the  cannon :  O  their 
glows  shall  not  be  vain  ! 

Day  and  night  the  engines  labor,  hammers  ring 
and  shuttles  fly, 

Till  the  avenging  fleet  is  fashioned,  Southward 
set,  with  colors  high. 

Homeward  come  the  eager  war-ships,  scattered 
wide  in  foreign  seas  ; 

Past  the  Indies,  through  the  Gulf-way,  all  their 
canvas  to  the  breeze  ! 

Right  across  the  sandy  shallows,  up  the  channel 
broad  and  deep,  — 

Hark  !  their  cannon's  judgment  thunder  wakes 
the  traitor-city's  sleep ! 

Moated  Jackson,  strong  St.  Philip !  ye  were 
weak  and  powerless  then ; 

Low  must  crumble  wall  and  bastion  had  ye  thrice 
ten  thousand  men. 

Ye  may  man  your  casemates  newly,  hurl  your 
shot  like  hellish  rain,  — 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  235 

Sweep   their  shells  in  fiery  circles,  strewing  all 

your  lines  with  slain. 
Oh,  such  ships  were  never  anchored  off  the  Nile  or 

Trafalgar,  — 
See  !   they  pass   the   boom,  the   fortress,  steady, 

stormed  from  hull  to  spar ! 
Oh,  such  men  were  never  marshaled  on  the  deck 

for  siege  or  slaughter,  — 
Think  how  sank  the  bold  Varuna,  hero-freighted, 

'neath  the  water ! 
Forts  are  silenced,  fleets  are  vanquished,  shot  nor 

flame  can  bear  them  down  ; 

Now,  to  God  alone  be  glory !  safe  they  come  be 
fore  the  town ! 
And  the  foe  by  tent  and  fireside  learned  full  well 

what  Treason  means, 
When   the   cannon,  wrathful,  deadly,  lined   the 

wharves  of  New  Orleans  ; 
When   they  heard   the   rapturous    music,  caught 

the  crews'  victorious  cheer, 
As  again,  on  dome  and  fortress,  rose  the  old  flag, 

floating  clear  ; 
Saw  the  pale,  bewildered  army  flee  in  terror  and 

dismay  :  — 
Now,  to  God  alone  be  glory,  't  was  a  proud  and 

joyful  day  ! 

From  St.  Louis,  down  the  River,  nobly  manned, 

the  Gun-boats  move  ; 
Woe  to  fort  and  recreant  city  when  they  round 

their  prows  above ! 


236  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Ah,   what   valor   seized    the    islands !    boasting 

Memphis  gained  again ! 
Wrapt  the  rebel  ships  in  ruin,  wave  and  flame 

our  allies  then  ! 
Mile  by  mile  the  restless  River  from  its  tyrant 

rule  they  free, 
Till  the  fleet  that  left  the  prairies  hails  the  fleet 

that  sailed  from  sea  ! 

"  Patience  yet,  O  greeting  sailors !  mark !  Port 

Hudson,  Vicksburg,  wait, 
Grimly  couched   on  savage  highlands,  sworn  to 

guard  the  River-gate. 
Call  the  soldiers  from  their  camp-fires  !  man  the 

guns  !  there  's  work  to  do 
Ere  this  barred  and  gloomy  water  you  may  sail 

unchallenged  through." 
Then   beneath   the    bluffs    they  anchored,  while 

their  armies  in  the  rear 
Made  the  prisoned  traitors  tremble,  slowly,  surely, 

drawing  near. 
How   we  waited   for  the   tidings  !    "  Will   they 

never  yield  ?  "  we  cried  ; 
"  Must  we  hold  them  still  beleaguered,  hopeless, 

starving  in  their  pride  ?  " 

Spring  went  fruitless  down  to  summer ;  't  was 
the  Fourth  day  of  July ; 

When,  to  swell  the  roar  of  cannon  and  the  an 
thems  pealing  high, 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  237 

Sudden  flashed  the  words  of  triumph,  lightning- 
borne  from  town  to  town, 

"  Haughty  Vicksburg  has  surrendered  !  we  have 
torn  their  colors  down !  " 

And  again,  in  clearest  echo,  ere  the  clamorous 
joy  was  still, 

"  We  are  masters  of  Port  Hudson,  and  the  River 
sail  at  will !  " 

So  from  Traitor's  grasp  forever  was  the  Missis 
sippi  won ;  — 

Praise  the  Lord,  O  shouting  People  !  round  the 
world  the  glad  news  run ! 

By  the  wave  or  in  the  woodland  slumber  still,  O 

Boatmen  bold ! 
Seaward   down,    through   loyal   levels,  rolls   the 

River  as  of  old  ! 
Rolls  the  River,  swift,  resistless,  scorning  bounds 

and  forts  and  foes, 

Undivided  from  the  Passes  to  Itasca's  lone  re 
pose. 
Hark  !  a  murmur  of  thanksgiving  !  all  its  waves 

in  music  flow,  — 
Ransomed   banks   lean   o'er   to   listen,  —  joyous 

winds  harmonious  blow ! 
On  its  breast  in  grander  plenty  through  the  ages 

yet  unborn, 
Still   shall   float  the  teeming  harvests,  —  fairest 

cotton,  golden  corn  ; 


238  THE  MISSISSIPPI. 

Cities   gleam   and  orchards  blossom ;    woodmen 

open  to  the  sun 
Leagues  of  lowland,  breadths  of  forest  where  its 

tribute-rivers  run, 
Till  a  free  and  happy  people  fill  the  valley  rich 

and  wide, 
From  the  springs  of  great  Missouri  far  to  Alle- 

ghany's  side ; 
While  above  them,  all  unclouded,  done  with  war 

and  envious  jars, 
Brighter   through   the    circling   ages    shine    the 

glorious  Stripes  and  Stars  ! 

Then  amid  the  yellow  wheat-fields  as  they  reap 

in  summer  days ; 
Heap,  when  harvest-moons  are  shining,  rustling 

sheaves  of  ripened  maize  ; 
Pluck  the  grapes  from  purple  hillsides  when  the 

vintage  crowns  the  year  ; 
Grind  the  cane  and  house  the  cotton  that  has  cost 

no  bondman  dear ; 
Choose   untrammeled,   righteous    rulers,   fit   the 

country's  name  to  bear  ; 
Hear  the  bells  from  bluff  and  prairie  through  the 

hush  of  Sabbath  air  ; 
They  shall  tell  the  thrilling  story  of  the  twice-won 

River  o'er, 
And  the  Boatman  and  the    Soldier  honored  be 

f  orevermore  j 


THE  MISSISSIPPI.  239 

In  the  nation's  song  and  record,  freighted  prose 

and  winged  rhyme, 
Light  canoe  and  war-ship  gliding,  hallowed,  down 

the  stream  of  time  ! 
July,  1863. 


BY  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

MY  home  is  drear  and  still  to-night, 

Where  Shenandoah,  murmuring,  flows ; 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  balmily  the  south  wind  blows  ; 
But  my  fire  burns  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall, 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall ; 
And  the  only  friend  within  my  door 
Is  the  sleeping  hound  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

Roll  back,  O  weary  years !  and  bring 

Again  the  gay  and  cloudless  morn 
When  every  bird  was  on  the  wing, 

And  my  blithe,  summer  boys  were  born  ! 
My  Courtney  fair,  my  Philip  bold, 
With  his  laughing  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold,  — 
No  nested  bird  in  the  valley  wide 
Sang  as  my  heart,  that  eventide. 

Our  laurels  blush  when  May-winds  call ; 

Our  pines  shoot  high  through  mellow  showers ; 
So  rosy-flushed,  so  slender-tall, 

My  boys  grew  up  from  child  hood's' hours. 
Glad  in  the  breeze,  the  sun,  the  rain, 
They  climbed  the  heights  or  they  roamed  the 
plain; 


BY  THE  SHENANDOAH.  241 

And  found  where  the  fox  lay  hid  at  noon, 
And  the  shy  fawn  drank  by  the  rising  moon. 

Fleet  Storm,  look  up  !  you  ne'er  may  hear, 

When  all  the  dewy  glades  are  still, 
In  silver  windings,  fine  and  clear, 

Their  whistle  stealing  o'er  the  hill ! 
Nor  fly  to  the  shade  where  the  wild  deer  rest, 
Ere  morn  has  reddened  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Nor  sit  at  their  feet,  when  the  chase  is  o'er, 
And  the  antlers  hang  by  the  sunset-door. 

What  drew  our  hunters  from  the  hills  ? 

They  heard  the  hostile  trumpets  blow, 
And  leapt  adown  like  April  rills 

When  Shenandoah  roars  below. 
One,  to  the  field  where  the  old  flag  shines, 
And  one,  alas  !  to  the  rebel  lines  ! 
My  tears  —  their  fond  arms  round  me  thrown  — 
And  the  house  was  hushed  and   the  hillside  lone. 

But  oh !  to  feel  my  boys  were  foes 

Was  sharper  than  their  sabres'  steel! 
In  every  shifting  cloud  that  rose 

I  saw  their  deadly  squadrons  wheel ; 
And  heard  in  the  waves,  as  they  hurried  by, 
Their  hasty  tread  when  the  fight  was  nigh, 
And,  deep  in  the  wail  the  night-winds  bore, 
Their  dying  moan  when  the  fight  was  o'er. 


242  BY  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

So  time  went  on.     The  skies  were  blue ; 

Our  wheat-fields  yellow  in  the  sun ;  — 
When  down  the  vale  a  rider  flew  : 

"  Ho,  neighbors  !     Gettysburg  is  won ! 
Horse  and  foot,  at  the  cannon's  mouth 
We  hurled  them  back  to  the  hungry  South ; 
The  North  is  safe ;  and  the  vile  marauder 
Curses  the  hour  he  crossed  the  border !  " 

My  boys  were  there !     I  nearer  prest,  — 

"And  Philip,  Courtney,  what  of  them  ?" 
His  voice  dropped  low :  "  O  madam  !  rest 
Falls  sweet  when  battle's  tide  we  stem. 
Your  Philip  was  first  of  the  brave  that  day 
With  his  colors  grasped  as  in  death  he  lay ; 
And  Courtney  —  well,  I  only  knew 
Not  a  man  was  left  of  his  rebel  crew." 

My  home  is  drear  and  still  to-night 

Where  Shenandoah,  murmuring,  flows 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  balmily  the  south  wind  blows ; 
But  my  fire  burns  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall. 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall ; 
And  the  only  friend  within  my  door 
Is  the  sleeping  hound  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

Yet  still  iii  dreams  my  boys  I  own ; 
They  chase  the  deer  o'er  dewy  hills, 


BY  THE  SHENANDOAH.  243 

Their  hair  by  mountain  winds  is  blown, 

Their  shout  the  echoing  valley  fills. 
Wafts  from  the  woodland,  spring  sunshine, 
Come  as  they  open  this  door  of  mine, 
And  I  hear  them  sing  by  the  evening  blaze 
The  songs  they  sang  in  the  vanished  days. 

I  cannot  part  their  lives  and  say, 

"  This  was  the  traitor,  this  the  true  ;  " 
God  only  knows  why  one  should  stray, 

And  one  go  pure  death's  portals  through. 
They  have  passed  from  their  mother's  clasp  and 

care ; 

But  my  heart  ascends  in  the  yearning  prayer 
That  His  larger  love  will  the  two  enfold,  — 
My  Courtney  fair  and  my  Philip  bold ! 
October,  1863. 


FOR  FREEDOM! 

RESPONSE  OF  THE  COLORED  SOLDIERS  TO  THE  CALL 
OF  THE  PRESIDENT,  JANUARY,  1864. 

THANK  God!     'T  is  the  war-cry !     They  call  us; 

we  come ; 

Clear  summons  the  bugle,  bold  beckons  the  drum ; 
Our  "  Ready  ! "  rings  clearer ;  our  hearts  bolder 

beat 

As  under  the  bright  flag  rejoicing  we  meet, 
For  still  we  have  trusted  through  darkest  delay, 
That  the  flash  of  these  guns  would  be  dawn  of 

our  day. 

'Tis   dawning!    'tis    morning!    the    hills    are 

aglow ! 
God's  angels  roll   backward   the  clouds  of   our 

woe ! 

One  grasp  of  the  rifle,  one  glimpse  of  the  fray, 
And  chattel  and  bondman  have  vanished  for  aye  ; 
Stern  men  they  will  find  us  who  venture  to  feel 
The  shock  of  our  cannon,  the  thrust  of  our  steel. 

And  then,  when  the  fierce  day  is  done,  in  the 

gleam 
Of  the  camp-fire  at  midnight,  how  gayly  we  '11 

dream !  — 


FOB  FREEDOM!  245 

The  slave  is  the  citizen,  coveted  name ! 

That  lifts  him  from  loathing,  that  shields  him 

from  shame ; 

His  cottage  unravished,  and,  gladsome  as  he, 
His  wife  by  the  hearthstone,  his  babe  on  her 

knee. 

The  cotton  grows  fair  by  the  sea  as  of  old ; 
The  cane  yields  its  sugar,  the  orange  its  gold ; 
Light  rustle  the  corn-leaves,  the  rice-fields  are 

green, 
And,  free  as  the  white  man,  he  smiles  on  the 

scene  ;  — 
The  drum  beats ;  we  start  from  our  slumbers 

and  pray 
That  the  dream  of  the  night  find  an  answering 

day. 

To  God  be  the  glory !     They  call  us ;  we  come ; 
How  welcome   the   watchword,    the   hurry,   the 

hum; 
Our  hearts  are  on  fire  as  our  good  swords  we 

bare, 
"  For  Freedom  !  for  Freedom ! "  soft  echoes  the 

air; 

The  bugles  ring  cheerly  ;  the  banners  float  high ; 
O  comrades,  strike  boldly  !  our  triumph  is  nigh ! 


THE  HUNDRED   DAYS'  MEN. 

In  the  busiest  season  of  the  spring  of  1864,  the  States 
of  Ohio,  Indiana,  and  Illinois  pledged  to  the  Government 
of  the  United  States  one  hundred  thousand  men  for  a 
hundred  days. 

'T  is  time  the  corn  was  planted,  the  latest  wheat 

was  sown,  — 
The  oriole  is  in  the  elm,  the  last  swan  northward 

flown ; 
By  streams  the  cottonwood  is  green,  the  plum 

waves  white  as  snow, 
The  wild-crab  blushes  in  the  woods,  the  red-bud 

soon  will  blow ; 
And  to  the  fenceless  pastures,  whose  grass  grows 

sweet  and  tall, 
Slow  move  the  herds,  to  feed  at  will  till  autumn 

frosts  shall  fall. 

O  for  the  arms  so  sturdy,  O  for  the  tireless  feet, 
That  shared  our  toil  when  other  Mays  brought 

summer  bloom  and  heat ! 
But  proud  we  spared  our  manliest  to  face  the 

country's  foe ; 
To  march  when  word   comes,   "  Forward !  "   to 

ride  when  bugles  blow : 


THE  HUNDRED  DAYS'  MEN.        247 

Now  calm  they  sleep,  by  plain  and  hill,  wrapped 

in  their  army-blue, 
Or  bear  our  banners  bravely  on,  —  and  will,  till 

wars  are  through ! 

And  still  there  's  peril.     Fife  and  drum  thrill 

every  village  now, 
And  quickly  down  the  grain  is  flung  and  idle 

stands  the  plough. 
O  eager  youth  !     O  earnest  men  !  your  steps  we 

will  not  stay  ; 
There  's   nobler  need,   there  's  weightier  work ; 

haste  to  the  camp  away  ! 
We  '11  bear  the  double  burden,  and  blithely  plant 

and  sow, 
That  tent  and  town  and  lonely  roof  no  fear  of 

want  may  know. 
And  when   come   round   the    reaping-days   and 

lingering  moonlight-eves, 
In  cheerful  households,  young  and  old,  we  '11  bind 

the  ripened  sheaves ; 
The  girls  shall  pluck  the  golden  ears,  the  happy 

children  glean, 
And  thus  we  '11   bring  the    harvest   home,  with 

many  a  song  between, 
And  praise  to  God  that  sheaves   nor   sons  we 

prized,  the  Land  before. 

But  joyfully,  in  busy  May,  gave   up   our  thou 
sands  more  ! 
ILLINOIS,  May,  1864. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  LINCOLN. 

Now  must  the  storied  Potomac 

Laurels  forever  divide ; 
Now  to  the  Sangamon  tameless 

Give  of  its  century's  pride  ; 
Sangamon,  stream  of  the  prairies, 

Placidly  westward  that  flows, 
Far  in  whose  city  of  silence 

X)alm  he  has  sought  his  repose. 
Over  our  Washington's  river 

Sunrise  heams  rosy  and  fair  ; 
Sunset  on  Sangamon  fairer,  — 

Father  and  martyr  lies  there. 

Kings  under  pyramids  slumber, 

Sealed  in  the  Libyan  sands  ; 
Princes  in  gorgeous  cathedrals, 

Decked  with  the  spoil  of  the  lands  ; 
Kinglier,  princelier  sleeps  he, 

Couched  'mid  the  prairies  serene, 
Only  the  turf  and  the  willow 

Him  and  God's  heaven  between  ; 
Temple  nor  column  to  cumber 

Verdure  and  bloom  of  the  sod,  — 
So  in  the  vale  by  Beth-peor 

Moses  was  buried  of  God. 


THE  GRAVE  OF  LINCOLN.          249 

Break  into  blossom,  O  prairies, 

Snowy  and  golden  and  red  ! 
Peers  of  the  Palestine  lilies 

Heap  for  your  Glorious  Dead  ! 
Roses  as  fair  as  of  Sharon, 

Branches  as  stately  as  palm, 
Odors  as  rich  as  the  spices  — 

Cassia  and  aloes  and  balm  — 
Mary  the  loved  and  Salome, 

All  with  a  gracious  accord, 
Ere  the  first  glow  of  the  morning 

Brought  to  the  tomb  of  the  Lord. 

Wind  of  the  west !  breathe  round  him 

Soft  as  the  saddened  air's  sigh, 
When  to  the  summit  of  Pisgah 

Moses  had  journeyed  to  die  ; 
Clear  as  its  anthem  that  floated 

Wide  o'er  the  Moabite  plain, 
Low  with  the  wail  of  the  people 

Blending  its  burdened  refrain. 
Rarer,  O  wind  !  and  diviner,  — 

Sweet  as  the  breeze  that  went  by, 
When,  over  Olivet's  mountain, 

Jesus  was  lost  in  the  sky. 

Not  for  thy  sheaves  nor  savannas  . 

Crown  we  thee,  proud  Illinois  ! 
Here  in  his  grave  is  thy  grandeur  ; 

Born  of  his  sorrow  thy  joy. 


250  THE  GRAVE  OF  LINCOLN. 

Only  the  tomb  by  Mount  Zion, 

Hewn  for  the  Lord,  do  we  hold 
Dearer  than  his  in  thy  prairies, 

Girdled  with  harvests  of  gold  ! 
Still  for  the  world  through  the  ages 

Wreathing  with  glory  his  brow, 
He  shall  be  liberty's  Saviour ; 

Freedom's  Jerusalem  thou  1 
May,  1865. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1,  page  3. 

"  Cleobis  and  Biton,  natives  of  Argos,  possessed  a  suf 
ficient  fortune,  and  had  withal  such  strength  of  body 
that  they  were  both  alike  victorious  in  the  public  games. 
When  the  Argives  were  celebrating  a  festival  of  Hera,  it 
was  necessary  that  their  mother  should  be  drawn  to  the 
temple  in  a  chariot ;  but  the  oxen  did  not  come  from  the 
field  in  time  ;  the  young  men,  therefore,  being  pressed  for 
time,  put  themselves  beneath  the  yoke,  and  drew  the  car 
in  which  their  mother  sat ;  and  having  conveyed  it  forty- 
five  stades,  they  reached  the  temple.  .  .  .  The  men  of 
Argos  who  stood  round  commended  the  strength  of  the 
youths,  and  the  women  blessed  her  as  the  mother  of  such 
sons ;  but  the  mother  herself,  transported  with  joy  both 
on  account  of  the  action  and  its  renown,  stood  before  the 
image,  and  prayed  that  the  goddess  would  grant  to  Cleo 
bis  and  Biton,  her  own  sons,  who  had  so  highly  honored 
her,  the  greatest  blessing  man  could  receive. 

"  After  this  prayer,  when  they  had  sacrificed  and  par 
taken  of  the  feast,  the  youths  fell  asleep  in  the  temple  it 
self,  and  never  awoke  more,  but  met  with  such  a  ter 
mination  of  life.  Upon  this  the  Argives,  in  commemora 
tion  of  their  piety,  caused  their  statues  to  be  made  and 
dedicated  at  Delphi."  — Herodotus,  i.  31. 

Cicero  (Tusc.  Disp.  I.  47)  and  others,  as  Servius  (ad 
Virg.  Geog.  iii.  532)  and  the  author  of  the  Platonic  dia 
logue  entitled  "  Ariochus  "  (367  C),  relate  that  the  ground 


252  NOTES. 

of  the  necessity  was  the  circumstance  that  the  youths' 
mother  was  priestess  of  Juno  at  the  time.  Servius  says 
a  pestilence  had  destroyed  the  oxen,  which  contradicts 
Herodotus.  Otherwise  the  tale  is  told  with  fewer  varia 
tions  than  most  ancient  stories.  The  Argives  had  a 
sculptured  representation  of  the  event  in  their  temple  of 
Apollo  Lycius  to  the  time  of  Pausanias  (Pausan.  II.  xx. 
§2). 

NOTE  2,  page  9. 

See  Prescott's  "  Conquest  of  Peru  ;"  "  The  Life  of  Pi- 
zarro,  "  and  "The  Spanish  Conquest  in  America,"  by 
Sir  Arthur  Helps  ;  the  "  Commentaries  Reales  "  of  Gar- 
cilaso  de  la  Vega,  etc. 

"  Aide !  "  the  exclamation  of  the  Inca  according  to  Gar- 
cilaso,  is  rendered  "  Alas !  "  by  Sir  Arthur  Helps  ;  but 
Professor  John  Fiske  says  concerning  it,  "  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  latitude  in  the  meaning  of  interjections ; "  and 
probably,  here,  it  expressed  indignation. 

The  borla  was  a  crimson,  tasseled  fillet ;  emblem  of 
sovereignty  ;  the  crown  of  the  Incas. 

NOTE  3,  page  17. 

Ancient  and  widespread  tradition  ascribes  the  ruined 
towers  on  the  headlands  of  the  Levant  to  St.  Helena,  and 
avers  that  they  were  built  for  the  beacon-fires  which 
flashed  the  news  of  the  discovery  of  the  Cross  to  her  royal 
son,  the  Emperor  Constantine,  at  Constantinople.  Maun- 
drell,  the  English  traveler,  who  visited  Palestine  in  1697, 
associates  them  with  Helena,  but  as  constructions  for  the 
defense  of  the  country  against  pirates.  Many  other  au 
thors  and  travelers  have  referred  to  them,  and  to  the 
tradition ;  notably,  in  our  own  day,  Dr.  W.  M.  Thomson 
in  "  The  Land  and  the  Book  "  (pp.  58  and  145),  and  Mr. 
W.  C.  Prime  in  his  glowing  monograph,  "  Holy  Cross." 


NOTES.  253 


Perhaps  St.  Elmo's  or  St.  Helen's  fire  (feu 
is  a  nautical  memento  of  Helena's  Beacons. 


NOTE  4,  page  23. 

With  the  Buddhist  belief  in  the  transmigration  of  souls, 
a  rare  white  animal  (albino),  especially  a  white  elephant, 
is  thought  to  be  the  incarnation  of  a  distinguished  person, 
perhaps  of  a  future  Buddha  (Enlightened  One),  —  there 
fore  the  worship.  "  Merit,"  in  the  Buddhist  sense,  is  the 
accumulation  of  good  deeds  to  secure  reward. 

"  Kandy's  tooth  "  is  a  relic  of  Buddha,  and  the  palla 
dium  of  Ceylon.  It  is  a  bit  of  ivory,  in  form  like  a  tooth, 
enshrined  in  six  cases  of  gold  and  silver  inlaid  with  pre 
cious  stones,  and  preserved  in  a  chamber  of  the  temple 
attached  to  the  palace  of  the  kings,  at  Kandy.  The 
"Footprint"  is  a  print  in  the  rock  at  Probat,  Siam, 
resembling  a  huge  human  foot,  and  believed  to  be  an 
imprint  of  the  foot  of  Buddha.  Over  it  is  a  beau 
tiful  shrine,  and  it  is  a  place  of  yearly  pilgrimage  for  the 
Siamese.  The  "Bo-tree"  (Ficus  religiosa)  is  the  tree 
under  which  Gautama  was  sitting  when  he  became  a 
Buddha. 

NOTE  5,  page  25. 

Mahdi  is  an  Arabic  word,  meaning  Leader  or  Guide. 
Moslems  generally  believe  that  the  expected  great  Mahdi 
will  be  a  descendant  of  the  Prophet,  and  will  appear  to 
wards  the  end  of  time  to  uproot  wickedness  and  establish  a 
reign  of  righteousness  on  earth.  There  have  been  many 
Mahdis  in  Mohammedan  history. 

Mohammed  Achmet,  "El  Mahdi"  of  1881  and  suc 
ceeding  years,  was  born  about  1848,  in  Dongola.  He 
studied  religion  in  a  village  near  Khartoum,  and  then 
took  up  his  abode  on  an  island  in  the  White  Nile,  living 
in  a  cave  or  recess  in  the  earth.  Here  he  acquired  a  rep 
utation  for  sanctity,  assembling  many  dervishes  (holy 


254  NOTES. 

men)  about  him,  and  increasing  his  influence  by  marrying 
the  daughters  of  Arab  chiefs.  In  1881  he  proclaimed 
himself  Mahdi,  preaching  universal  equality,  law,  and 
religion,  community  of  goods,  and  a  "  Holy  War  "  against 
the  Infidels.  The  oppressed  Soudanese  flocked  to  his 
standard  ;  his  emissaries  were  everywhere  busy  ;  his  proc 
lamations  thrilled  the  Moslem  world ;  his  victories  in 
flicted  great  loss  upon  Egypt  and  upon  her  British  allies. 
A  man  of  genius  and  of  rare  force  and  fervor,  his  name 
will  live  in  the  annals  of  the  nineteeth  century. 

NOTE  6,  page  32. 

"  In  the  ecclesiastical  history  of  Nicephorus  Callixtus, 
he  has  inserted  a  description  of  the  person  of  Mary  which 
he  declares  to  have  been  given  by  Epiphanius,  who  lived 
in  the  fourth  century,  and  by  him  derived  from  a  more 
ancient  source.  '  She  was  of  middle  stature ;  her  face 
oval ;  her  eyes  brilliant  and  of  an  olive  tint ;  .  .  .  her 
complexion  fair  as  wheat.'  " 

"The  Empress  Eudocia,  when  traveling  in  the  Holy 
Land,  sent  home  a  picture  of  the  Virgin  holding  the  Child 
to  her  sister-in-law  Pulcheria,  who  placed  it  in  a  church 
at  Constantinople.  It  was  at  that  time  regarded  as  of 
very  high  antiquity,  and  was  afterwards  attributed  to  St. 
Luke.  It  is  certain  that  a  picture,  traditionally  said  to 
be  the  same,  did  exist  at  Constantinople,  and  was  so  much 
venerated  by  the  people  that  it  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
palladium,  and  borne  in  a  superb  litter  or  car  in  the  midst 
of  the  imperial  host  when  the  emperor  led  the  army  in 
person.  This  relic  is  said  to  have  been  taken  by  the  Turks 
in  1453,  and  dragged  through  the  mire,  but  others  deny 
this.  .  .  .  According  to  the  Venetian  legend  it  was  taken 
by  the  blind  old  Dandolo  when  he  besieged  and  took 
Constantinople  in  1204,  and  brought  in  triumph  to  Venice, 
where  it  has  ever  since  been  preserved,  in  the  Church  of 
St.  Mark."—  Mrs.  Jameson's  "  Legends  of  the  Madonna." 


NOTES.  255 

NOTE  7,  page  35. 

This  incident  of  the  Crusade  of  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion  is  given  in  the  "  Chronicles  of  the  Cistercians." 

NOTE  8,  page  56. 

Written  for  the  commemoration  of  the  Bi-Centennial 
Settlement  of  the  State  of  New  Hampshire  by  the  New 
Hampshire  Historical  Society,  May  22,  1873.  "  Captain 
Smith  "  was  John  Smith  of  Pocahontas  fame,  who  sailed 
along  the  New  England  coast  in  1614,  and  discovered  the 
Isles  of  Shoals.  A  poor  monument  to  his  memory  stands 
upon  the  highest  point  of  Star  Island,  one  of  the  group. 

NOTE  9,  page  70. 

Kearsarge,  the  mountain  which  gave  its  name  to  the 
vessel  that  sunk  the  Alabama,  off  Cherbourg,  June  19, 
1864,  is  a  noble  granite  peak  in  Merrimack  County,  New 
Hampshire,  the  twin  of  Monadnoc,  rising  alone,  three 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  A  lofty  mountain  in  Car 
roll  County,  N.  H.,  has  also  been  known  as  Kearsarge ; 
but  the  name  belonged,  from  the  earliest  times,  to  the 
Merrimack  County  peak,  and  the  other  is  more  properly 
called  Pequawket. 

NOTE  10,  page  75. 

"  That  gem  of  isles 
Sacred  to  captives'  woes  and  wiles." 

Duston's  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Contoocook,  just 
below  the  village  of  Penacook  in  Concord,  New  Hamp 
shire.  This  island  is  some  two  acres  in  area,  and  its 
name  comes  from  Hannah  Duston,  who  on  March  15, 
1697,  was,  with  her  nurse,  carried  away  by  the  Indians 
from  Haverhill,  Mass.,  and  brought  to  this  island,  which 
was  their  abode.  Here,  one  midnight,  with  the  help  of 


256  NOTES. 

her  companion  and  a  captive  white  boy,  all  of  them  hav 
ing  feigned  slumber,  she  dispatched  the  Indians  in  their 
sleep,  and  made  her  way,  in  one  of  their  canoes,  down  the 
Merrimack  to  Haverhill.  To  her  memory,  in  June,  1874, 
there  was  erected  on  the  island  an  impressive  monument 
of  Concord  granite,  representing  her  as  standing  with  a 
tomahawk  in  hand.  The  Northern  Railroad  crosses  the 
island  to  the  west  of  the  statue. 

NOTE  11,  page  78. 

The  history  of  our  Southwestern  Border  is  replete  with 
stories  of  capture  and  escape  similar  to  the  one  here  re 
lated.  The  records  of  that  able,  humane,  and  lamented 
officer,  the  late  General  Crook,  when  he  commanded  the 
Department  of  Arizona,  furnish  many  such  incidents. 
Captain  John  G.  Bourke,  U.  S.  A.,  has  detailed  some  of 
them  in  his  brilliant  narratives,  "  An  Apache  Cam 
paign  "  (Scribners,  New  York,  1886)  —  that  memorable 
campaign  when  General  Crook  and  his  command  pene 
trated  to  the  fastnesses  of  the  Sierra  Madre,  and  surpris 
ing  the  savage  Chiricahua  Apaches,  brought  them,  hum 
bled,  to  the  San  Carlos  Agency.  Five  Mexican  women 
who  had  been  their  captives  came  into  the  camp,  ex 
hausted,  ragged,  and  almost  famished  —  one  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms.  "  '  Praise  be  to  the  Ail-Powerful 
God !  '  ejaculated  one.  '  And  to  the  most  Holy  Sacra 
ment  !  '  echoed  her  companions.  '  Thanks  to  our  Blessed 
Lady  of  Guadaloupe  !  '  '  And  to  the  most  Holy  Mary, 
Virgin  of  Soledad,  who  has  taken  pity  upon  us ! '  ' 

NOTE  12,  page  174. 

The  Be-thar-wa-an,  —  Love  Song  of  the  Omaha  In 
dians,  —  according  to  Miss  Alice  Fletcher,  is  sung  at 
dawn.  "  The  lover  leaves  his  tent  while  the  morning  star 
is  shining,  and  goes  to  the  valley  of  his  maiden.  On  a 


NOTES.  257 

hill  overlooking  her  tent,  among  the  trees  and  not  far 
from  the  stream,  he  pauses  and  waits  the  dawn.  As  the 
east  flushes  and  glows,  with  stream  and  bird  and  breeze 
accompanying,  he  sings," — each  strain  ending  with  a 
long,  emphatic,  imploring  note,  a  veritable  cry. 

NOTE  13,  page  201. 

Baidar  Gate  is  an  arch  of  masonry  built  as  a  barrier 
across  the  road  from  Sevastopol  to  Yalta,  at  the  height  of 
the  pass  above  the  Crimean  Vale  of  Baidar.  The  trav 
eler  emerging  from  it  comes  suddenly  upon  the  enchant 
ing  view  of  sea  and  shore. 

NOTE  14,  page  202. 

Alupka  is  the  superb  seaside  residence  of  Prince 
Worouzoff,  on  the  Crimean  shore  below  Yalta. 


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